Page 65 of Unbroken

I shake my head, forcing the fantasy away. I check my messages. One from Zoya.

Zoya

Are you in the house? I heard there was drama at the restaurant.

So that’s what we’re calling it now? Drama? Oh, I’m definitely going to give him shit for that.

I’m fine. He’s getting dressed, so I’m gonna sneak in and delete the message from her phone.

Zoya

Good. He hasn’t seen it yet?

I don’t think so…?

Do I really know? No. Fuck it.

I have to plot a way to get into his room. He had her phone—in his hand, in his pockets—and I know exactly what has to happen next. It's essential that I get that phone because if he sees that stupid fucking text I sent…

God. But why am I in such denial? Would it really be the end of the world if he saw it? If anything, the way he touched me in that room just now made me wonder… Maybe it’s not just me. Maybe I’m not the only one feeling this. Maybe he feels it too. Does he?

But what if he does want me? What if something starts—anything, even just a moment—and then… what if he realizes he doesn’t? I’m not Mariah. I never was, and I never will be.

I make my way to the living room. Every corner of the space holds a memory of my sister—echoes of her life still lingering here—and maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the thread I need to hold onto. Vadka and Luka, the reminders that even when someone we love is gone, the world keeps spinning. Life doesn’t stop. And maybe, just maybe, I have to remember that there’s always—always—something to be grateful for.

This is a small house. My sister and Vadka made sure Luka was always nearby. His little room is right off the kitchen, so he could play close, walk out to help her cook, or justbe around. It was cozy, intimate, thoughtful. My sister loved decorating—obsessed over her space—and she made it beautiful. A soft white and beige aesthetic, clean lines, and gentle textures. And Luka’s room? That was the one place she let chaos bloom. She let him make a mess, let his imagination spill everywhere.

I peek in and see his artwork on the dresser. Pink smudges. A crooked jug. Portraits taped to the walls, messy, bold, and full of life.

It’s my fault he has a bitch for a nanny, and I need to fix this. He deserves better—so much better—than this. Of course he does.

I strain to hear Vadka in the other room. Maybe he’s gone to his office or the kitchen. But of course—he’s in his bedroom. What if he’s looking at her phone right now? Shit.

I move quietly down the hall toward his room, every sound amplified. My heart beats like a warning in my chest. Then—I see it. A thin sliver of light glowing from under the office door. He’s not in the bedroom. My heart stalls and then pounds harder. I need to move—now.

I push open the bedroom door fast. The scent hits me first. No trace of my sister anymore. None of her perfume, her lotion, her presence. Just Vadka. The quiet weight of his cologne. The clean scent of his body wash. The steam still clinging faintly to the room from his shower.

Even the bed’s different. Dark navy sheets, a blue coverlet—neutral, masculine. Housekeepers come a few times a month, and it looks like they’ve made small changes. The room doesn’t feel like Vadka and Mariah’s anymore. It’s just his now.

I scan the room quickly. The phone’s not on the dresser. My gaze flicks to the nightstand—and there it is. A small black phone, plugged in, charging. He touched it. He’s charging it. Shit. The chances he saw that text… I rush over, grab it, unlock the screen, and delete the message.

"What are you doing in my room?"

I scream. The phone slips from my hand and hits the floor with a sharp crack. No. No. I drop to my knees, hands trembling, and stare at the screen. A long, jagged crack splits the glass. A sob catches in my throat.

"I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to?—"

"It’s fine," he says, his voice low. "It’s just a crack. We can fix it."

"I was just trying—" I’m out of breath, the words caught somewhere between shame and panic.

And then he’s there. Right in front of me. His forehead touches mine, and his hands come up, framing my face.

"It's okay, Ruthie."

And I wonder why he's saying it's okay—what exactly he thinks I need comfort for. His voice is relaxed, almost soothing, and he leans in, kissing my temple gently like I’m something precious. Then I realize—he’s only wearing a pair of boxers. And those boxers? They’re doing absolutely nothing to hide his erection. He’s hard as fuck. Bare-chested, sexy as sin. Tattoos trail along his arms, crawl up his neck, and stretch across the broad, solid plane of his chest—ink on muscle, power in every inch of him.

I reach out with a tentative hand, not even sure why, only that I have to. Like I don’t have a choice. I press my palm flat to the front of his stomach—the lower part of his belly—and he feels like everything I imagined—warm, solid, strong. Masculine in a way that shakes something loose inside me. A sound rises from my throat, low and raw, escaping before I can stop it. I’m aware—painfully aware—of my own heartbeat. Of the throbbing ache building between my legs. Of how my emotions are flipping, swinging wildly—from grief to loneliness to burning, undeniable need.

---