Page 58 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

Gage inclines his head. “Couldn’t agree more.”

Fewer than thirty words, yet mutual respect cements itself like the concrete they mixed this afternoon.

Anya pushes noodles around her plate, smile pinned but eyes distant. Between that and the hypervigilance, this will not do.

I wait for a lull and then clear my throat gently. “Mrs. Markoff, forgive my impertinence, but these scallion pancakesare exceptional. Any chance Dragon Cove has catered a family reunion in years past?”

Her eyes brighten. “Oh, heavens, yes. Christmas four years ago. I’d had knee surgery, so I couldn’t cook, and we decided Chinese food would be just the thing. But then, Uncle Dan decidedeverythinghad to be authentic Szechuan—five-alarm peppers in every dish.”

Anya groans around a dumpling. “Poor Aunt Patty?—”

Mrs. Markoff nods gravely toward Hunter. “Patty’s allergic to capsaicin. Breaks out in hives if a jalapeño so much as winks at her. She spent the whole night dunking her tongue in sweet tea vodka while Dan proclaimed, ‘real flavor builds character.’”

Anya’s father snorts into his rice bowl. “Character building should not require an EpiPen.”

“There were fortune cookies too,” Anya says. “Cousin Everly cracks one open, reads‘You will soon welcome triplets’and nearly faints.”

Hunter’s eyes widen theatrically. “Triplets? Is that a fortune or a threat?”

“My exact thought,” Anya chuckles. “Everly spent a week Googling whether fortune cookies can jinx birth control.”

Gage raises his cup. “Any triplets arrive?”

“Just one baby the following spring,” Mr. Markoff says, deadpan. “We told her the other two were delayed in shipping.”

Laughter skitters around the table, more subdued than riotous, but I’ll take it. For a minute, the Chinese take-out boxes and lingering gossip all blur into simple family noise, and the cottagefeels steady again. The ship has been righted, as much as it can be for now.

Later, boxes are stacked, dishes rinsed, and the humid evening seeps lavender light through the windows. I find Anya at the foot of the staircase, a plate of leftover dumplings forgotten in her hand. The others gravitate toward porch cleanup—Hunter and Mrs. Markoff clearing debris from the porch while Gage discusses tomorrow’s smoker schedule with Anya’s father.

I approach Anya quietly. “Upstairs tour? I haven’t seen the legendary teenage shrine.”

She huffs a laugh. “Legendary for the wrong reasons. Prepare to be traumatized.”

Her childhood bedroom door retains glitter letter stickers proclaiming, “Anya’s Place.” Inside, walls gleam cotton-candy pink, the exact shade of bubble gum. A canopy bed awash in rosebud linens squats against one wall, and a trio of porcelain dolls guard a lace-draped vanity. It smells faintly of vanilla body spray.

“Nothing has changed since I left.”

“Did anyone consult you when they decorated this room?”

She blinks at me. “What makes you think I didn’t do it?”

I huff a laugh, glancing around. “Because you didn’t.”

A strange smile spreads over her lips. “No, Mom didn’t consult me.”

I perch on a wicker desk chair covered in rhinestones. “If you’d been given free rein to design this room, what would it have looked like?”

“Not Barbie’s bachelorette pad. Probably deep teal walls, tapestries, strings of fairy lights. Maybe a flea-market dresser I’d repaint every month. A vintage bed, something weird and chunky and wooden with too much flourish. And I’d paint that to suit my whims…”

“Bohemian,” I muse.

She nods as her gaze skims the porcelain dolls. “And less…whatever this is.”

“Let’s expand the exercise. Imagine you have total autonomy and unlimited potential—where are you living?”

She hesitates, chewing her lip. “A little apartment near the harbor. Exposed brick, big windows. Some plants, I guess.” She glances up. “I kill anything green, though, so maybe that’s a bad idea.”

I catch the hitch. “Plants plural, yet your tone suggests a different wish. What is it you truly want, Anya?”