My morning ovtion test shows a beaming smiley face.


    Another month, another chance to get knocked up by Palm Beach’s most eligible monster.


    Except said monster is “workingte.”


    Again.


    I stare at Oleg’s text, fighting the urge to send him a photo of the positive test along with something crude like, “Your sperm is cordially invited to a party in my uterus.”


    But he’d probably just send back one of his signature grunt-texts. A simple “k” designed to remind me that this is all business.


    My phone buzzes and my stupid heart leaps, but it’s not Oleg. It’s not even Sydney, who’s still ghosting me hard.


    No, it’s my future mother-inw,ing in hot with her special brand of passive-aggressive wisdom.


    OKSANA: Good evening, Sutton. I send along the details of Marcia Rui. She’s an excellent stylist. I’m sure she’ll be able to work wonders on you.


    Which is Bitchy MIL speak for, Your tits were showing at my fancy party and I’d rather gouge out my eyes than let you embarrass the family name again.


    I contemte sending back the middle finger emoji. It would be worth it just to imagine her perfectly Botoxed face contorting in horror.


    But I’m not that socially inept.


    Yet.


    Give me another month or two of this horny solitary confinement and that could change.


    SUTTON: Thank you. I’ll keep her in mind for future events.


    I pause, then decide to go for broke. Maybe if I can’t win her over with sideboob, I can do it the old-fashioned way—through her son’s stomach.


    SUTTON: Quick question. What was Oleg’s favorite meal growing up? I’d like to make him something special for dinner.


    An hour passes. I start browsing Pinterest for “romantic dinners that say ‘please knock me up’” when her reply finallyes through.


    OKSANA: I don’t have a clue. You’d have to talk to his nanny.


    Rich people, I swear to God.


    She follows with a phone number, which I now don’t have a choice about using. Oksana is going to ask Oleg about whether his peasant of a fiancée made him his favorite dish.


    She may already hate me, but let her never say Ick follow-through.


    I take a deep breath and dial, praying I’m not about to get myself into something I can’t handle.


    Story of my life.<hr>


    Mrs. Henrietta Josefs waddles out of the elevators and into Oleg’s penthouse an hourter like she’s been waiting her whole retired life for this moment. She’s wide-eyed at the luxury and the high ceilings, but then she sees me and beams.


    “I saw the announcement in the paper, but real life is even better. Ollie chose such a lovely young woman!”


    Her voice is warm honey and chocte chip cookies, like a fairy godmother who traded her wand for a Le Creuset Dutch oven. She pulls me into a soft hug and I understand all at once why Oleg isn’t the same kind of soulless elite his mother is.


    It’s because of this woman.


    But another part of me is still stuck on the reveal that the Beast of Palm Beach, terror of the boardroom and yacht clubs alike, was once called Ollie.


    Actual tears brim in her eyes when she pulls back, admiring me again. “I’m so happy you called.”


    She barely even knows who I am, but I can tell she means it.


    I grin shyly. “I’m d I wasn’t bothering you.”


    She looks horrified at even the suggestion and bustles into the kitchen. She may be old, but she’s fast. I’m huffing trying to keep up with her as she fishes ingredients out of her tote bag and gets to work.


    “I called for help with the pelmeni, but this is all a ruse to find out what Ollie was like as a kid,” I exin.


    I immediately cringe like he can hear me.


    Yeah, no. I’ll never be calling him that again.


    “So sweet! So caring!” She measures flour with the precision of a pharmacist, and I bite back augh. “Let’s see… What was he like? He took such great care of his sister. He was so protective of—” Her voice cracks and she hides it by clearing her throat. “—Oriana.”


    Her hands, so sure a second ago, tremble as she reaches for a measuring cup. No part of me wants tough at that.


    “Mrs. Josefs…”


    “Nanna. Call me Nanna. The children always did.” She dabs at her eyes with her apron. “Oh, look at me. Haven’t even been here ten minutes and I’m blubbering. You must think I’m a silly old woman.”


    “No, you’re not. You loved the children you took care of. That’s beautiful.”


    She squeezes my hand with flour-dusted fingers. “I retired when Ollie and Oriana were twelve. They didn’t really need me anymore. But I always kept in touch with the family. When I heard about Miss Oriana…” She chokes on the words.


    I want to know everything. But the grief in her eyes stops me.


    I’m not going to press on old wounds just to satisfy my own curiosity.


    So I change the subject again. “Thank you foring to help me, Nanna. I couldn’t be more grateful.”


    She pats my cheek, leaving a dusty handprint. “Of course, dear. I’m just d I could see one of my kids settled and happy. Ollie deserves that.”


    One of her kids. Not Oksana’s son. Not the Beast. Just… Ollie.


    The image of young Oleg, before the scars and the reputation, is bewildering. What happened to that boy? Where did he go?


    “These pelmeni,” Nanna exins as she shows me how to fold the dough around the meat filling, “were his absolute favorite. He’d beg for them two, three times a week.” Her fingers move with practiced grace, creating perfect little dumplings while mine look like they’ve been mangled by a drunk toddler. “Make these for him, my dear, and he’ll never let you go.”


    Iugh, but something twists in my chest. A foreign ache.


    Like homesickness for a ce I’ve never been.


    The hours slip by in a haze of flour and stories. Stories about a boy who loved sailing and his twin sister who’d have followed him to the ends of the earth and beyond.


    A boy who’d sneak extra dumplings to the kitchen staff when his mother wasn’t looking.


    A boy who became a beast, though Nanna doesn’t talk about that part.


    By the time we finish, the apartment smells like heaven and childhood memories I never had. The dumplings float in their savory broth, tiny clouds of deliciousness.


    “He’s going to love them. Thank you, Nanna.”


    “The pleasure is mine, dear. Call me if you need anything at all.” She grabs her purse, ready to waddle back to her retirement of game shows and grandchildren.


    “You’re leaving?”


    “Oh, yes. I’ve been so happy to cook for Ollie again and meet his bride, but I don’t want to get in the way of young love.”


    Young love. That’s what this must look like. The perfectly set table. The hours spent learning his favorite childhood dish. The way I keep checking my phone, hoping to see his name.


    I sink into a chair, staring at my evening’s work through new eyes.


    When did I be this girl? This woman who waits by the phone, who learns to cook Russian dumplings, who gives a shit about what makes a rich, powerful man tick?


    I’ve dated before. Had flings. Rtionships that looked good on paper but felt like wearing someone else’s shoes.


    But this… this is different.


    He is different.


    And that terrifies me more than any beast ever could.