Ivan stood quietly at the end of the hallway leading to his chambers, leaning against the cool wall. His mind was restless. He had left Irina alone with Lydia, and even though he knew he should give them space, he couldn’t stop the nagging worry in his chest.
The door to his chambers opened, and Irina stepped out. He could see it immediately—her eyes were red, her cheeks glistened with tears that she tried to hide. Her movements were composed, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her.
"Are you okay, Lady Volkova?" Ivan asked softly, his voice gentle.
Irina quickly collected herself. "I am," she said, her voice steady but a little strained. "I will take my leave, Your Highness." She bowed slightly and turned, leaving down the corridor.
But Ivan could feel it in his bones. Something was wrong. He didn’t trust the calm facade. He knew he needed to see Lydia. To check if she was alright.
He rushed back into his chambers. The door opened, and what he saw made him pause for a moment. Lydia was lying on the bed, legs crossed, reading a book. The tray of breakfast was almost empty. She was nibbling on the last fruits, and she looked completely unbothered. As if nothing had happened. She didn’t look even a bit sad or worried. In fact she looked happy. Like it was the best day of her life.
Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with the excitement of the story. She giggled softly to herself, gasped dramatically, and even muttered phrases under her breath, fully absorbed in her book. Like nothing else mattered except the writings in her book.
But Ivan’s trained eyes noticed the cracks. There was a subtle shadow beneath her eyes. The slight tremor in her fingers. The tiny sighs she tried to hide. The way her lips pressed together just a fraction too tightly.
His voice escaped him softly, without thinking. "Are you okay?"
Lydia felt a sting at his words, though she tried to hide it. Of course, she wasn’t okay. She was hurting, inside and out. She was putting on a show of being strong and fine, but Ivan could see through it. That gentle question made her chest tighten, and a small part of her wanted to push him away, wanted to hide her pain forever.
Before she could answer, there was a knock on the door. A servant stepped in. Lydia blinked rapidly, swallowing hard to stop tears from forming. The servant came forward to take the empty breakfast tray, and Lydia quickly returned to reading her book as if nothing had happened.
Ivan sat down on the chair at the vanity, unsure of what to do next. His eyes kept drifting to her. The worry, the protectiveness—it all showed on his face, and she felt it. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the concern radiating from him.
And for a moment, anger bubbled up inside her. How dare he worry about her? What right did he have to ask her if she was okay? He was the reason for her pain. He was the one who had thrown her heart into chaos. It was all because of him. Everything was all because of him.
Then, just as suddenly, she set down the book. She took a deep breath and let her shoulders relax. A soft, almost innocent smile spread across her face, like the old Lydia, the one Ivan remembered.
"Ivan," she said gently.
He looked up, startled by the calm sweetness in her voice. She smiled at him, her eyes bright and warm.
Without warning, she stood and walked over to him. She climbed into his lap and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. Her head rested against his chest. "I missed you so much," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly with emotion.
Ivan froze. His mind screamed in confusion. She felt warm, so close, so real. Was this genuine? Or was it another one of her games? He couldn’t tell.
But instinct overpowered doubt. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, holding her tightly. The book, the breakfast, the world outside—they all disappeared. There was only her, the soft warmth of her body pressed against him, the gentle rhythm of her breathing mingling with his own.
In another part of the palace, Tatiana paced in her room. Her hands were trembling, her teeth gnawed on her nails. She couldn’t shake the image from her mind—Lydia in Ivan’s robe, in his chambers, sitting on his lap, hugging him so intimately. It haunted her, twisted in her stomach like a bitter poison.
"What if they patched things up?" she muttered to herself, her voice low and frantic. "What if..."
Her thoughts spiraled, and in her panic, she began knocking things over, slamming small items against the wall.
"Lady Tatiana!" Yelena, her personal maid, rushed in. "What is the matter?"
"I don’t know what to do anymore," Tatiana admitted, her voice cracking. "He is going to leave me."
Yelena tried to calm her. "My lady, that will not happen. He will not leave you. You know he will not. You are carrying his child."
Tatiana paused, her eyes widening as if she had forgotten for a moment. "What?"
Then realization flickered across her face. "That’s right. I am carrying his child." She let the thought sink in, and a soft, fragile smile broke through her tears. "He will not ever leave me. No matter what. He cannot leave me."
She repeated the words to herself, as if saying them out loud would make them more real. "He will not leave me. He will not leave me."
Back in Ivan’s chambers, he and Lydia stayed close. She leaned against him, her head brushing his shoulder. Her fingers toyed with the sleeve of his shirt absentmindedly, trailing gentle lines across his skin. Every touch sent a shiver down his spine, making it impossible for him to think straight.