Elena’s POV<b>: </b>
“Elena”
Her voice cut through the room like a de. I flinched and stared harder at the <b>TV </b>remote in my hand, pretending to fumble with the buttons, even though the Turkish drama was already ying
Yeah. It had been a couple of hours
Three in the afternoon, and I still hadn’t told her.
Good thing she couldn’t move much, because I was fairly certain she was about five seconds away from summoning the strength to strangle me with her IV line. I could feel the fury radiating from her bed like a furnace. My sweet, fragile mother who was recovering from open heart surgery looked ready tomit murder<b>, </b>
I cleaned my throat, flicking through episodes we’d already seen a hundred times. “Episode fourteen offered weakly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Elena.”
This was bad.
She’d taken a two–hour nap earlier. I’d <b>used </b>the time to breathe, to n, to gather the courage to tell her everything.
I hade up with exactly zero strategies.
There was only one viable option now, panic and blurt the <b>truth</b>, then pray she didn’t keel over and die a second time out of sheer frustration.
A knock on the door interrupted the tension like a deus ex machina. I leapt to my feel, practically jogging toward it with a breath of relief.
“Must be the nurse. I muttered
I opened the door, expecting a meal tray
And froze.
Oh, for the love of
My heart dropped to my toes.
Standing there, in all his six–foot plus glory, was Nik Vetrov. Tailored <b>suit </b>bouquet of white lilies in hand, eyes calm <b>and </b><b>impassive </b><b>as </b>ever.
No. No. Not yet.
I wasn’t ready<b>. </b>This was way too soon.
He looked past me into the room with a polite nod. “Good afternoon
I felt my <b>jaw </b>tighten.
He was going to blow my coher
I hissed under my breath, “What the hell are you doing <b>here</b>?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell her yet?”
“She just woke up!” I whispered furiously.
“Elena!” My mother’s voice floated from the bed. Is a Dmitri
I physically winced
Niki’s brows shot up. He gave me a look that clearly said you have got to be kidding me.
Before I could m the door in <b>his </b>face, <b>he </b>strode in with quiet confidence, bouquet still in hand.
“Hello, Mrs. Kovalyova,” he said smoothly,
My mother blinked at him in confusion.
13
<b>8:35 </b><b>PM </b>
“Oh.. <b>thank </b>you,” she <b>said</b>, epting the flowers. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a little groggy. You <b>are</b>.
“Niki Vetrov,” he said with a practiced smile.
She willed. Then let out a short<b>, </b>awkwardugh.
“Right. I know that name. The renowned billionaire. But you’re here!” Her gaze flicked between us, confusion blooming
Oh no
<b>I </b><b>saw </b><b>the </b>exact moment she put the pieces together. Her eyes dropped to <b>my </b>dress–the one Niki had boughtst night. She studied the cut of the fabric. Her brows lifted. Damn it, obviously she was <b>too </b>smart not to understand.
Then she turned back to him, and her voice was sharper now,
“You’re the one who paid the bills?*
I opened my mouth to intervene, but she was already ring
Niki remained calm. “It wasn’t much trouble. Please don’t worry yourself
Her attention snapped to me again. “I’m sorry, <b>Niki</b>, this is the first time we’re meeting—I had expected Dmitri
I could practically see the gears turning in her head. She knew something was off. She always did. She was my mother, after all
Niki flicked his gaze to me, and I could tell he was silently <b>asking</b>. Want me to take over!
I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. I wasn’t a coward. My mother didn’t raise one.
“I broke off the engagement with Dmitri,” I said quietly,
Her expression froze.
I continued, “He cheated on me. I walked in on him.”
The silence that followed <b>was </b>deafening.
My mother closed her eyes. Pain twisted her features. I hated that I had to hurt her this way. She’d loved Dmitri. Not as a son, but she respected him Trusted him to take care of me.
And now I had to shatter that illusion.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Mom had always hated cheaters
It wasn’t just a preference–it was a boundary carved deep into her bones. A line drawn by experience, by betrayal. One that made her guard her heart so fiercely, it took years before she ever let someone close enough to call à partner.
She sighed then, rubbing her temples slowly, the weight of everything pressing down on her face. “Tree,” she murmured,
That was it
No angry outburst. No dramatic <b>gasp</b>. Just… quiet, Tired,
The kind of tired <b>that </b>settled in your bones when life had already proven, more tharance, that people don’t always choose to stay <b>loyal </b>
And God, I hated how <b>heavy </b>she looked like the strength I <b>always </b>relied on in her had been chipped away bit by bit–and this was just another
blow.
Her first real rtionship–her first long–term boyfriend–had shartered her trust. He’d lied, cheated, gaslit her until she questioned her own instincts. It left scars she never tried to hide, only learned to live with. After that, she never looked at love the same way again.
It took <b>years </b>before someone came along who didn’t run from her fears. Who didn’t call her “too much for needing reassurance. That someone was George Anderson.
He didn’t mock her paranoia. He didn’t get defensive. Instead, I had watched as he handed her his phone and said, “Track me if you need to, I don’t want you guessing I want <b>you </b>to feel safe.”
And <b>that </b>was it.
1835 <b>PM </b>
That was the moment Mom let him in.
Because sometimes love doesn’t look like flowers and grand gestures.
Sometimes it looks like transparency.
Like patience,
Like trust rebuilt from the ground up.
She opened her eyes slowly. Her voice was quiet. “Did you at least punch him? Break his nose!”
I blinked, “What!”
“That little rat cheated on my daughter after <b>four </b>years? <b>You </b>should’ve at least broken a bone!
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