Page 20 of Beautifully Deranged

"Mmm. Doubt it."

I hear knocks outside, and pause mid-bite. Across from me, Mikhail barely reacts, just sips his coffee like the world's slowest-moving storm. Broody. Half-awake. Still shirtless. Another knock, louder this time. I frown. Who the hell…?

"Yours?" Mikhail grumbles.

I wipe my hands on his shirt. "Probably. Lucky me."

I stride toward his front door, unlock it, and slip into the hallway. The second I step out, my stomach sinks. My father is standing at my door. Pounding. Expensive flowers in one hand. That familiar look of disapproval etched into his face.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I lean against Mikhail’s doorframe, crossing my arms. "Hi, Father."

My father freezes. His eyes trail over me, the bare legs, the oversized shirt, the fact that it is very obviously not mine. His face turns an alarming shade of red. His gaze shifts past me. AndMikhail is right behind me. His coffee in hand, looking like every single one of my father’s worst nightmares.

Father grips the flowers so hard I’m surprised the stems don’t snap. "Lola."

"Father."

"I set you up with the best money can buy, and this is where I find you?" His lip curls. "Some man’s apartment?"

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "I’m twenty-two. What did you expect? A convent? Besides, don’t you want grandkids? You’re not getting any younger, no matter what that eighteen-year-old secretary says." Behind me, Mikhail chokes on his coffee. I’m not sure if he’s sputtering because I mentioned grandkids or because he just found out I’m ten years younger than him.Not that he needs to panic—I'm on birth control. Father’s eye twitches. His mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. "At least tell me he’s a boyfriend this time, Lola."

I hesitate. I don’t want to say yes and have Mikhail throw me under the bus. Technically, we’re not labeled. But we’re… something. The air shifts behind me, Mikhail radiating lethal energy. "I'm the boyfriend."

My breath catches. Father’s brow arches, his gaze flicking between us, assessing. Mikhail extends his hand. "Mikhail Volkov. Nice to meet you. Please, come in."

My father hesitates before grasping his hand. "William Astor."

God, I really owe him one. We head back inside. Mikhail leans back in his chair with that ever-present scowl, while my father lowers himself stiffly into one of the seats. He doesn’t touch the food right away. Instead, he folds his hands like he’s at a business meeting he’d rather skip. Which, knowing him, he probably would. The only reason he’s here is obligation. He never visits because he wants to. He didn’t even give me the stupid flowers properly, just tossed them on the table likeI should be grateful he spared a second from his oh-so-busy schedule. In his dreams. I drop into the chair beside Mikhail, scooping eggs onto my fork. “Eat, Father. That way, at least you won’t judge my life choices on an empty stomach.”

He finally picks up his fork and takes a slow bite. As expected, his attention shifts away from me entirely. His gaze lands on Mikhail. “What do you do?”

Mikhail wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I run a construction company.”

Father barely reacts. “Which one?”

“Volkov Development.”

My father's fork stops halfway to his mouth. His brows lift, his lips part, but he quickly reins himself in. “That’s your company?”

Mikhail nods once.

“That’s an impressive operation. A friend of mine contracted you for a high-rise last year.”

Mikhail shrugs. “We do good work.”

When my father looks at me again, any hint of approval vanishes. His face hardens into the familiar cold mask I grew up with. “And you? How’s your preparation for the exhibition?”

“It’s going well.”

I catch the flicker of curiosity in Mikhail’s eyes, but he doesn’t ask me.

“Good.”

And just like that, the conversation flat lines.

I need a drink.I know my father. I know how his mind works. Right now, he’s sitting there, mapping out every flaw I have like a mental checklist. A mantra of disorders hethinksI have, the instability heknowsexists. He wants to tell Mikhail. Not to protect him, but to manipulate him. To get something out of it.

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