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Instead, I follow him into the kitchen.

He sets a cup on the marble island. Black, no milk. Then, without a word, he slides the sugar bowl next to it.

I look at the sugar. I narrow my eyes at him. “I don't take sugar.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“In case you change your mind.” His face doesn't move, but something happens around his eyes that I don't like at all.

I pick up the coffee. I don't touch the sugar on principle.

“There isn't going to be a wedding,” I say.

There. Finally. That's the line I drove across the city to deliver.

He leans back against the counter opposite me and folds his arms.

“Okay,” he says, and I wait for the rest of it. Only there isn't any rest of it.

“Okay?” I repeat.

“I'm not going to force you to do anything, Arina.”

“Good,” I bite out. “Because you can't.”

“I know that too.”

I put the cup down hard. Coffee sloshes onto the marble. “Then what are you doing? The unlocked door and the coffee and the...” I gesture at the sugar bowl, which is now apparently my enemy. “You were waiting for me. Why?”

“Because I knew you'd come.” He says it simply, without any kind of smugness. “And I didn't want you to have to knock.”

My throat goes tight. I don't know why. I swallow it down and get angry instead, because angry is easier.

“How long?”

He doesn't pretend not to understand. “Four months.”

“Four months.” I laugh. It isn't a nice sound. “He told you four months ago, and you stood at his grave today and said take care of yourself, Arina, like a sympathy card.”

“I gave him my word I wouldn't tell you.”

“You gave my father your word.”

His shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes.”

“And what about me?” I demand.

He's quiet for a moment. “You weren't in the room.”

“No,” I say. “I never am. Never was.”

His jaw shifts, and he looks away from me for the first time since I walked in.

“He wanted you to hear it from Viktor,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost apologetic. “He thought if you heard it from me first, you'd think I came to collect.”

“Didn't you?”