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They wanted to know about Mamá, so I told them enough to understand what her life had become without forcing myself through every terrible detail.

I told them how Ciro had taken her to El Salvador, how she and Rafael Duarte had fallen in love, and that Rafael—not Ciro—was my father. They learned how Mamá died trying to escape with me when I was thirteen and how Papá secretly protected me afterward until he died helping me finally get out.

There were tears and anger on both sides of the screen, but underneath all of it was love for a woman none of us had stopped missing.

The conversation lasted much longer than I expected, but the part I couldn’t get out of my mind came when Queen Sofija told me I already belonged to them. I didn’t have to earn my way into their family simply because I had grown up without them.

Mamá’s inheritance had remained within the Dravik family holdings, protected for her children if she ever returned or they were found.

The exact numbers made my heart skip a beat, but after a while I stopped trying to understand them. What mattered was that the money was mine. I could study anything I wanted and live in Manhattan, Eslovenya, or somewhere none of us had even mentioned.

My grandparents offered me rooms in their home as casually as Lacey had offered me coffee. Stefan said I could come for a week, a year, or forever, and no one would pressure me to know in advance how long I wanted to stay.

Then I told them about Lachlan.

I’d expected that part to require considerably more explanation.

It didn’t.

The Draviks knew who Nikolai Volkov was. They knew enough about The Syndicate to understand the world Lachlan belonged to, and apparently royal families with centuries of political history were less shocked by discreet underworld connections than fairy tales had led me to believe.

Then I explained to them what Lachlan meant to me.

I told them about the man who had refused to sacrifice women he’d never met, even while other men hurt him for it, who helped me escape, and whom Papá trusted with me while he was dying. Somewhere between terror and freedom, I had fallen in love with Lachlan without ever knowing the exact moment it happened.

No one warned me away from him.

Queen Sofija only said she hoped the man her granddaughter loved would come with me when I visited.

Grandfather said any man Rafael Duarte trusted with his daughter deserved the courtesy of being judged by his own actions.

That conversation gave me the answer I hadn’t been able to find before. My mother’s family had offered me love, security, money, and another place in the world that belonged to me whether Lachlan was in my life or not. Having all of it available changed nothing about how badly I wanted him.

All I could think about was telling Lachlan, having him beside me when I eventually walked into my mother’s home, and coming back to Manhattan with him afterward.

I didn’t have to trade one family for another. I could have both.

The timer on the oven chimed and pulled me firmly back into the kitchen.

I grabbed a towel, opened the oven, and checked the carrots before they crossed the narrow line between beautifully roasted and ruined.

The carrots were perfect, so I took them out and placed them on a serving dish.

The kitchen side of the island was already set for two, complete with candles, wine glasses, and the good dishes I’d found after searching three cabinets and texting Scarlett to ask whether Lachlan actually owned anything that matched.

The answer had been yes.

The man owned cufflinks that probably cost more than some cars.

I lowered the music, checked the beef one last time, then smoothed the front of my sweater.

It had been eleven days since I’d seen him.

Eleven days since I had touched him.

In a couple of minutes, Lachlan would walk through that door, and for the first time since I had met him, I knew exactly what I wanted to tell him.

A soft chime sounded from the security panel near the kitchen.