Chapter Six – Keila's POV

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

I told myself I just needed one night away from the noise—from the emptiness of the Buchanan home, from the ghost of Amelia in every corner, from the quiet judgment behind Kelly’s eyes. Just one night to remember who I was before all this.

But Ivan didn’t just give me escape. He gave me tenderness.

When I arrived at his apartment, the door swung open and he greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. Not rushed, not suggestive—just warm, real. He was in grey shorts and a white vest, looking effortlessly handsome, barefoot on the tiled floor. He pulled my chair out for me before I could sit, helped me out of my heels with a teasing smile.

“Pregnant women shouldn’t be wearing these death traps,” he joked, making me laugh. “You know you’re leaving my house pregnant, right?”

I rolled my eyes, but inside—I smiled.

Dinner was quiet but warm. Jazz hummed from a speaker in the corner. He cooked like it meant something. No cameras. No matching designer outfits. Just a man plating salmon with lemon slices and handing me wine like I was someone who mattered.

He wiped a smear of sauce from the corner of my mouth with his thumb, then kissed my neck as he reached past me for a towel. He tied my hair into a messy bun when I offered to help with dishes, claiming he needed access to my neck.

“Unfair advantage,” I told him.

“Every part of you is an advantage,” he murmured and stood right behind me, I could feel his breath on my neck and the butterflies in my tummy responding.

When I flicked water at him playfully, he retaliated, pulling me close until my back hit the edge of the counter. He lifted me onto the kitchen table like I weighed nothing.

“You know,” he whispered between kisses, “it doesn’t have to be a bedroom. As long as it’s you, anywhere is fine.”

And when he touched me, it was like he was learning a language he already knew by heart.

He didn’t ask permission to love me. He just did. And in his arms felt like I just fitted or was meant to be there.

---

We moved from room to room like the night would never end. He laid me down gently, touched me like a secret, kissed me until I forgot who I was supposed to be.

When he moved inside me, slow and sure, I cried.

Because it had never felt like that.

Not even once.

I played with his hair in the dark, something I never did with Kelly. I wasn’t allowed. Kelly's hair was always perfect, untouched, off-limits like everything else about him.

He never let me in. Ivan let me all the way in.

And when I whispered that the recipe he complimented came from Kelly’s grandmother, not me, he shrugged. “You made it yours. That’s enough for me.”

---

The morning was golden. Sunlight leaked through the curtains, wrapping us in a hush. I woke first, curled against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding me.

My fingers found the faint marks on my neck and I blushed. I sat up slightly, and Ivan opened his eyes with a soft groan.

“Morning, queen,” he murmured, his voice husky with sleep.

I smiled. “You’re proud of this?” I asked, touching the small bruise on my neck.

“Very,” he said without shame. “Art should be admired.”

He turned to reach for the coffee mugs he had brought in. As he moved, I saw a red scratch trailing across his back.

My hand flew to my mouth. “Ivan! I—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he chuckled, handing me my coffee. “Best war wound I’ve ever earned.”

I laughed through my blush, shaking my head. “I swear, I’ll cut my nails.”

He leaned closer, brushing a kiss to my temple. “Don’t you dare.”

We sipped in silence. For once, it wasn’t awkward. It was peace. Simple and sacred.

He asked if I wanted breakfast. I said no. I didn’t want anything that would make this feel too real.

Because I knew the moment would end.

And it did.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once. Then again.

Kelly Buchanan.

The name stared up at me like a curse.

Ivan saw it. He didn’t ask. He just handed it to me, his face unreadable.

I stared at the screen. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.

My thumb hovered over the answer button. Then I silenced the call.

Because for one morning, I wasn’t his wife. I wasn’t a stand-in. I wasn’t trying to be enough for someone who never wanted me.

I was just a woman.

Seen. Held. Loved.

And I didn’t feel sorry.

Then the call came again, and I looked up at Ivan then back on the screen then picked my dress.

'You don't have to go back,' he mutters and he is right, I don't want to go back.

The phone beeps and I check the text, 'we need to talk.' simple and and direct to the point.

I give him a peck then get down from the bed.

'Thank you for the night,' I mutter not meeting his eyes then get into the bathroom.