Chapter 170 Chapter 170 Breathe
The news of Constantine’s paternity came with an overwhelming sense of relief. It was like we had all been holding our breath, suspended in this unbearable tension—and finally, we could exhale.
He’s Ivan’s.
The next two days felt lighter because of it. Easier. Almost normal. We relaxed into the space, into each other, into the quiet that followed the storm.
Well… almost.
Jax didn’t stop.
If anything, he doubled down—pursuing me with that same dangerous charm, testing boundaries like he couldn’t help himself. Elizabeth, his girlfriend, seemed to get a kick out of me turning him down. I know they’re in an open relationship, but still… it couldn’t feel good to watch him like that.
She’s stunning.
Not just physically—though she absolutely is—but in the way she carries herself. Sweet, kind, but firm when she needs to be. Their kids adore her, listen to her without question. She has that presence.
And she’s beautiful in a way that feels almost unreal.
Tall, her skin so deep and rich, so dark it catches shades of blue in the light. Her eyes are a soft brown, warm but sharp. Her hair—black, full of perfect curls. She’s a model, and it shows. Her body is sculpted like it was designed, not born.
Standing next to her… I don’t get it.
I don’t understand why he would want me. Why he would want anyone else.
And just like that, I spiral.
Again.
I start comparing. Not just to her—but to every woman here. Every girlfriend. Every wife. Even their mothers are effortlessly beautiful.
I’m the smallest. The shortest. The most forgettable.
Sal’s wife, Sofia, is from Spain, like him. She has legs for days, rich brown skin, hazel eyes, and long, glossy brown hair that moves like silk.
Christian’s girlfriend, Maja, is Polish—blonde, soft brown eyes, skin that practically glows.
Leo’s girlfriend, Olivia, is English. Tall, polished, with brown hair and matching eyes, always put together.
Matteo’s wife, Nari, is Korean. Her skin is flawless, almost unreal. She’s tall, with sleek black hair that falls perfectly down her back.
Arno’s wife, Parisa, is Iranian. Quiet, reserved—but breathtaking. Deep green eyes, naturally highlighted brown hair that catches the light in ways I wish mine did.
Can’s girlfriend, Ece, is Turkish like him. Her eyes are so light blue they almost look gray, and her brown hair has a red tint when the sun hits it just right.
Illia Jr.’s wife, Magda, is Bulgarian—like me. Black hair, mint green eyes, full lips that look like they were carved with intention.
And then there’s Marie.
Dimitri’s wife.
The French girl.
She’s… something else entirely.
Tall. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Effortless in a way that makes me feel small just standing near her. And yeah—she has an incredible body. The kind that pulls your attention whether you want it to or not. Full, perfect tits that sit just right on her chest, and she doesn’t bother hiding them half the time. She swims topless like it’s nothing, like everyone else is the one who should feel awkward—not her.
Her nipples are the softest shade of pink, the kind that looks almost unreal against her skin.
How do I know that?
Because she doesn’t care who’s looking.
And I notice everything.
I hate that I notice everything.
I don’t belong here.
Not even a little.
Not next to them. Not even next to my own family. My sister is a better version of me in every way that seems to matter in rooms like this.
Fuck me.
I was better before this trip. I was happy—alone in the mountains, where I didn’t have to measure myself against anyone. Where I didn’t feel like I was constantly falling short.
Now, a full two weeks later I’m on the train, heading back, Constantine asleep in my arms. His small body is draped across me, his fingers curled into my sweatshirt like he’s anchoring himself.
Or maybe he’s anchoring me.
Ivan hasn’t stopped watching us.
Not once.
When we got the results, he smiled at me the same way he did years ago—when I told him I’d marry him. That same look. Hopeful. Certain. Dangerous.
He asked to spend time with Constantine.
And even though I know—deep down—that I’m probably going to regret it…
I said yes.
I’m letting him in. Giving him space to get to know his son, to be in his life.
Ivan is coming home with us to the villa.
The train jerks to a stop, rough enough to shift everyone slightly, but Constantine doesn’t stir. Ivan stands and gently takes him from my arms, like he’s afraid to wake him.
I think he’s waiting for it—for Constantine to call him Dad.
So far, it hasn’t happened.
He still calls him Ivan.
Even after the results. Even after we explained. Even after two weeks together in Italy.
We step off the train with the few others getting off at this stop, making our way down to the parking lot. Ivan carries Constantine carefully in one arm while pulling his bag with the other. I grab the rest.
Watching him like that… holding my son…
It does something to me.
Something I’m not ready to name yet.
I spot Atanas leaning against his BMW, just like the first time I met him. This time, he’s alone. His posture is relaxed—until he sees Ivan. Then he straightens instantly, his expression shifting as he takes him in.
I move slightly ahead of Ivan.
“That’s Atanas,” I say. “Maria’s nephew. He’s our ride. I didn’t want to leave my car here for two weeks.”
Ivan just grunts.
Back to silent. Cold. Closed off.
The whiplash is exhausting—hot, then cold, then something in between. I never know where I stand with him.
Atanas steps forward, extending his hand, introducing himself.
Ivan doesn’t take it.
Doesn’t even acknowledge it.
I sigh quietly, shaking my head. Atanas laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his curls, trying to brush it off.
“His car seat is on this side,” he says, opening the door so Ivan can settle Constantine in and buckle him up.
The rest of the bags go in the trunk. Ivan climbs into the back seat without a word. I take the front.
The drive up the mountain is quiet.
Too quiet.
I can feel Ivan’s eyes on me the entire time—burning into the side of my face, like he’s waiting for something. Watching for any interaction between me and Atanas that he won’t like.
Like I’m the one on trial.
Like I have something to prove.
It’s almost laughable.
He’s the one who never stays. Never commits. Never stops wandering.
And yet here I am, feeling like I’m being judged.
I roll the window down, letting the mountain air rush in. It’s cool, clean, familiar.
Grounding.
For the first time in hours, I can breathe.