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He nods slowly, like he expected that answer.

My mother stands as my father’s hand slips naturally to her waist.

“Let me speak to the doctor,” she says.

“You’ve done enough,” my father tells her quietly.

She opens her mouth to argue, but he leans in and kisses her forehead again, right between the brows where worry settles first.

“I’ll handle it,” he says. Then, softer, with that same unbearable tenderness that always seems to undo her just a little, “Posidi, lyubov moya.” Sit, my love.

She lets out a sigh, half-annoyed, half-mollified, then watches him leave, her gaze brimming with so much love. She turns back to me and raises a brow.

“Your brothers are here too…” she says with a sly smile. “You want to see them?”

“Hell no,” I bark. “Seeing them right now is even worse than seeing Tristan.”

She chuckles. “I know.”

Chapter 23

TRISTAN

It’s been a week since Maksim had that panic attack, and in that time he has vanished from my life with a completeness I didn’t think he was capable of.

He doesn’t answer my calls. He doesn’t reply to my messages. Most of them remain unread, which would almost be impressive if every unopened notification didn’t leave something tight and unpleasant lodged beneath my ribs.

Maksim has never done this before.

He can be petty when he wants to be. He’ll send me a single middle finger in response to a perfectly reasonable question, ignore me for an afternoon because I finally replied to one of his deliberately provocative messages, or make a dramatic point of leaving me on read just long enough to be irritating.

But he has never truly ignored me.

Not like this.

This absence is unfamiliar. It feels like a door closing somewhere I can’t see, and I have no idea how to knock on something I can’t locate.

The memory of that night keeps returning in fragments.

The scrape of his chair against the floor. The color draining from his face. The way his breathing became shallow and frantic. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing any of us—not his mother, not me, not the room around him.

For a few seconds, I genuinely thought I was watching him disappear.

That feeling has not left me since.

I have never seen him afraid like that. Not once, in all the time I’ve known him, not even when I’ve watched him walk into rooms full of people who wanted to destroy him and simply not care. That kind of fear leaves marks. I know that much.

I pick up my phone.

I’ve already called Anton twice this week to ask about Maksim, and both times he answered with a patience that felt more like a warning than an update. Calling a third time would tip the scale from concerned into suspicious, and I’m not prepared to explain myself to Anton yet. Not until I understand it myself.

So I call Alex instead.

We aren’t close. Not really. Alex is quieter than Anton, more distant, and has the unnerving habit of looking at people as though he has already decided exactly how much trouble they would be to dispose of. He’s introverted, antisocial, and efficiently terrifying.

Yet, for reasons I’ve never entirely understood, we have always managed a kind of uneasy alliance. When I need something handled, Alex handles it. When he needs something handled, I do the same. There are no unnecessary questions, no emotional performances, and no favors held over anyone’s head.

The phone rings twice.