Emilie Pov:

I woke up the next day to the smell of pancakes.

God I love Pancakes.

For a second, I forgot where I was, until my gaze met the high ceiling, intricate moldings, and soft silk curtains of the guest room.

With a soft groan, I sat up, stretching the soreness from my limbs. The bed was far softer than anything I’d slept in recently, too soft, too clean, too foreign. This wasn’t home. It never would be.

After a quick shower, I stepped out, towel-drying my hair and rummaging through the small bag I brought. My only property. Everything I had left fit inside it, like my life had been stripped down to essentials, and even those were borrowed.

My fingers landed on a pair of denim shorts. I slipped them on and pulled a white shirt over my head. Nothing fancy, but good enough. I didn’t come here to impress anyone, least of all him.

This was my first official day in the Petrov mansion.

I checked the time, 7:00 a.m. Still early.

This was my first day in the Petrov mansion. I hadn't come for Andrew this time around, but for his father.

Then I made my way downstairs.

"You're up," A voice said from behind. I turned to see it was Irina.

I gave a slight nod.

"The chef's are making Breakfast. Come and sit at the dining.

I followed her to the dining, and took a sit.

"What of Milo?" I asked.

"Oh, he doesn't eat with us. He prefers eating alone." Irina replied. "Don't worry, you'll get used to everything around here." She assured me.

"What of……" I paused.

"Andrew?" She asked and I nodded slightly.

"He, uhm…. He isn't around for now. I guess he'll be back this week. No one knows when he comes back." Irina answered. "Missing him already"

Her gaze flicked to mine. “He’s not around at the moment. No one knows exactly when he comes back, but it should be sometime this week.”

I swallowed.

“Missing him already?” Irina smirked.

“I wish I could.” My voice cracked, softer than I intended.

Silence fell over the table until the double doors opened and a line of chefs walked in. The head chef, a man with a French accent, bowed slightly.

“Dobroye utro, damy (Good morning ladies). In front of you are Japanese-style pancakes with chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and cookie crumbs. Fresh fruit juice has been served beside it. We hope it pleases you.” The headchef with his Russian accent.

The pancakes looked divine, golden, soft, and jiggly, and also attractive. The whipped cream curled like clouds.

“Priyatnogo appetita.(Enjoy your meal)” the chef added before leaving with his team.

“Spasibo,” Irina replied, then turned to me with a tilt of her head. "So tell me, what happened between you two?"

"Who?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Andrew." She asked

"Everything that happened between her and Andrew is now in the past. She belongs to me now. Not him." The voice was sharp.

My breath hitched.

I turned slowly, and there he was.

Milo.

Wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, a black coat hung loosely over one arm. He walked down the stairs like he owned every inch of this place.

Because he did.

The tension in the room snapped taut.

I stood, unsure of what to do or say. “Good morning.”

He said nothing.

Just stared at me like a ghost.

God. His gaze can kill a person.

He stood there, arranging his tie. It seems he was having a hard time doing so.

Irina walked over to him, standing a little too close. She adjusted the knot of his tie gently, smoothing it down with deliberate slowness.

But something seemed off.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice low and almost sultry.

“I wasn’t aware I needed to explain my schedule,” Milo replied dryly, brushing her hands away.

Irina’s smile faltered. She took a step back but didn’t leave.

Milo turned his attention back to me. His gaze swept down my body, slow, unreadable, and lingering far longer than it was polite.

“You slept well?” he asked, voice smooth but edged with something darker.

“I did,” I replied, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

“You like pancakes?”

“Very much.”

“Good,” he said. “You’ll be needing your strength.”

I swallowed hard. “For what?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he walked past Irina, past the table, stopping just beside me.

He leaned in, not enough to touch, but enough for me to feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent of his cologne. Woodsy, Masculine and Dangerous.

“I hope you remember the deal, Emilie,” he murmured. “Because I never play games I don’t intend to win. Mercy isn't in my dictionary.”

My heart thudded against my ribs.

He pulled back and walked off, leaving the tension crackling in the air behind him.

I hated the way my heart skipped when he leaned in to me. The way I felt drawn to the same man I was sold to.

Forty two does look good on him.

"You should eat while it's warm," Irina said softly, snapping me out of my daze.

I sat back down, but the pancakes had lost their appeal. I poked at them with my fork, chocolate sauce smearing the edges of the plate like guilt.

What was I doing here?

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

I was only meant to stay a few nights. Lay low. Regain my footing.

I wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

I took a bite out of spite. It was sweet and airy and rich enough to make my throat tighten with emotion.

Irina sat back down and took a sip of her juice. “He’s not usually like that with strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger,” I muttered, chewing slowly.

Her eyes flicked to mine. “Right. Andrew.”

I nodded, more to end the conversation than confirm anything.

Irina scoffed "Don’t take it personally.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I had taken it personally.

Every word. Every look. Every reminder that in this house, I wasn’t just a guest. I was a pawn.

And Milo Petrov?

He was the player moving all the pieces.