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“It’s been… fast,” I offer.

“Clearly.” Valerie’s voice isn’t unkind, but it isn’t warm either. She’s the youngest, I think, dark hair like Alexei’s, same sharp jaw. She’s the one who told their mother. I’m trying not to hold that against her, but I’m also keeping score.

“Val,” Tracey warns.

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

I take a sip of wine and decide I like them. They remind me of people I’d have been friends with in another life—direct, protective, a little mean in the way women are when they love someone and want to make sure you’re not going to wreck him.

“I know this is weird,” I say, setting my glass down. “Trust me, I’m aware of how this looks. Girl shows up out of nowhere with someone else’s baby and moves into your brother’s penthouse. If I were you, I’d have questions too. Probably a lot of them.”

They both look at me. Tracey’s knife pauses mid-slice.

“I’m not after his money,” I continue, because I’d rather say it myself than wait for someone to imply it. “I’m not after anything. He helped me when I was in a bad situation, and it just… kept going. I didn’t plan any of this.”

Valerie tilts her head. “What was the bad situation?”

I give her the short version. Andi. Ella. The apartment with no heat. Alexei showing up like some kind of stubborn, oversized guardian angel who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

When I finish, Tracey’s expression has shifted. Softer. Valerie’s arms have uncrossed.

“He paid your heating bill?” Tracey asks.

“Without telling me. I found out later and almost killed him.”

Something passes between the sisters—a look I can’t fully read but that feels like recognition. Like they’ve seen this version of their brother before, the one who fixes things for people whether they want him to or not.

“That sounds like Alexei,” Valerie says, and for the first time, her voice is warm.

From the living room, I hear Irina’s voice—rapid-fire Russian, followed by Alexei’s lower response, also in Russian. I can’t understand a word, but the rhythm of it is unmistakable. She’s grilling him. He’s deflecting.

Crap. This isn’t good.

“Should we rescue him?” I ask.

Tracey laughs. “Absolutely not. He brought this on himself.”

The kitchen smells incredible—something with garlic and herbs roasting in the oven, a pot of something simmering on the stove. The counters are cluttered in the way that means someone actually cooks here, not the pristine magazine look of Alexei’s kitchen. There are kids’ drawings taped to the fridge, a stack of mail on the counter, a mug that says “World’s Okayest Mom” next to the coffee maker.

It hits me so suddenly that I have to take a breath. This is what a family kitchen looks like. I used to have one of these.

“You okay?” Tracey asks.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Just, um… this is really nice. Your mom’s house. It reminds me of growing up.”

“Where did you grow up?” Valerie asks, and this time the question isn’t an interrogation. It’s just a question.

“Indiana. Small town. My parents had a house with a kitchen about this size, and my mom cooked every Sunday.” I run my finger along the edge of the counter, my throat suddenly tight. “She died two years ago. Both my parents, actually. Car accident.”

The kitchen goes quiet. Tracey sets down the knife.

“I’m sorry,” Valerie says. Her tone is sincere.

“Thanks.” I take another sip of wine. “Anyway. That’s the short version of why my life is a disaster and your brother found me at my lowest point and decided to adopt me like a stray cat.”

Valerie snorts. Actually snorts. And then Tracey laughs, and something in the room shifts—the invisible wall between us getting thinner.

“He’s always been like that,” Tracey says, going back to her tomatoes. “When we were kids, he brought home a dog he found in a parking lot. Didn’t ask. Just showed up with this mangy, half-starved pit bull and announced that his name was Boris and he lived here now.”