Page 38 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

"Hey, you two. Come eat some fruit."

I walked out of the kitchen with a plate of sliced apples.

Alex immediately dropped his blocks and pattered over barefoot.

Chris sat by the coffee table, continuing the abandoned construction project.

"You don't have to bring so much every time. We're running out of room."

Chris looked up and smiled. "It's all for Alex. Books and snacks. Not for you. You can't refuse."

I was speechless. Smiling, I handed him the plate.

Alex nibbled an apple slice, hanging onto my leg. "Mommy, did you find a new job?"

I looked down at him.

Alex had the same honey-gold hair as me, soft curls at the nape of his neck. His gray-blue eyes caught the light from the window—bright.

Just like his father.

Whenever he focused on something, his expression made me falter. It always did.

Five years. And I still hadn't kicked the habit of falling for Ivan.

Fine. I was pathetic.

I still thought about him. The pain had dulled. It didn't tear me apart like it used to. But it hadn't disappeared—it had turned into a needle, thin as thread, lodged somewhere in my chest. Every so often, it pricked.

Reminding me Ivan existed.

I crouched down and ruffled Alex's soft hair. "I've got an interview this afternoon. New client in Manhattan. They have an eight-year-old daughter. Needs a tutor."

And most importantly, they were paying double my usual rate.

Alex leaned over and kissed my cheek, leaving a bit of apple juice. "Good luck, Mommy."

"Thanks, baby."

Upper East Side,Manhattan. The street was so quiet it didn't feel like New York.

I checked the address on my phone, then looked up.

Brownstone townhouses lined the block, their facades painted a uniform warm beige. The wrought-iron railings were rust-free, polished to a gleam. Trees along the street had just started turning yellow, sparse leaves rustling faintly in the wind.

The street was empty. No delivery trucks parked on the curb. No stacked boxes. No crooked trash cans. Even the fallen leaves had been swept clean.

I stopped in front of one townhouse and studied the entrance—no nameplate. Just a number. Exactly as the email had described.

Clearly, this family valued privacy.

I rang the bell.

A moment later, the heavy wooden door swung open. A housekeeper in a charcoal gray suit stood inside, her hair pinned neatly back. She nodded slightly, offering a polite smile. "Ms. Bennett? The young miss is waiting for you in the living room. Please follow me."

I followed her through the foyer. The marble floor gleamed like a mirror. Light from the crystal chandelier shattered into tiny bright spots on the ground. The air carried a faint scent—cedar, maybe, or some woody incense. It felt familiar.

The living room was huge. The floor-to-ceiling windows stood half-open, white curtains billowing slightly in the breeze. A girl sat on the sofa with her back to me, flaxen curls spilling over her shoulders.