Page 26 of Slightly Married
I turned back to the closet, but my mind was elsewhere. What had happened between Yiorgos and Konstantin? And why did I suddenly care so much?
As I contemplated this question, we were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind us. I turned to find a much older version of Yiorgos standing in the doorway.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eye as he took in the piles of clothing scattered around us.
“Father,” Yiorgos said, straightening. “This is Kayla Athanasiou, my new personal stylist. Kayla, my father, Petros Papadopoulos.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Papadopoulos,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m just helping your son rehabilitate his wardrobe.”
“Athanasiou?” The older man’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Not Michail and Jeanette’s daughter?”
“Yes, actually. Do you know my parents?”
A smile spread across his weathered features. “Know them? My dear, I was there the night they met.” He chuckled, the sound warm and conspiratorial. “Your mother was quite the performer back then.”
I felt heat rush to my face. “I... I’m aware of how they met.” My mother’s past as a dancer—stripper, to be precise—wasn’t something I advertised.
“A beautiful love story,” Petros continued, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. “Your father couldn’t take his eyes off her. None of us could, really.” He laughed heartily.
Yiorgos shot me an apologetic look. “Father, perhaps—”
“So, have you finally decided to settle in the motherland?” Petros interrupted, his eyes bright with curiosity. “After your parents married, your father chose to stay in New York.”
Before I could answer, Yiorgos did. “Kayla is married to Kostas Christakis.”
Petros’s expression shifted immediately, his eyebrows drawing together. “I’m surprised you ended up married to a Christakis, of all people. Quite unexpected, given the history.”
My embarrassment shifted to curiosity. “History? What do you mean?”
Petros glanced at his son, who had suddenly become intensely interested in a tie I’d condemned to the donation pile. “You don’t know?” Petros asked, genuine surprise in his voice.
“Know what?” I pressed, looking between father and son.
As soon as I climbed into the Titan—Olympus Motor’s newest mid-size SUV—outside Yiorgos’s villa later that afternoon, I called my father. When he answered, I skipped pleasantries entirely.
“Daddy, were you engaged to Irida Christakis?”
The silence on the other end lasted so long I checked to make sure we hadn’t been disconnected. I learned about my father’s engagement to Irida from Yiorgos’s father.
According to Petros, my father had been engaged to Irida Christakis years ago—until he left for America on business, where he met and married my mother instead. This revelation suddenly explained Irida’s persistent coldness toward me.
“That’s ancient history, butterfly,” he finally said.
“It doesn’t feel like ancient history when the woman glares daggers at me every time I enter a room.” I felt heat rising in my cheeks. “A heads-up would have been nice before you married me into that family.”
“I haven’t thought about that engagement since I ended it.” He sounded surprised. “It was arranged by our parents. I was young; she was younger. Things... didn’t work out.”
“Didn’t work out how?” I pressed, absently tracing the butter-soft leather of the car seat. “Because from Irida’s behavior, it seems like there’s more to the story.”
“I met your mother,” he said simply. “Fell in love, married her instead.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this when arranging my marriage to her nephew?”
“Michaila,” his voice softened, “I had forgotten about it until this moment. It was thirty years ago.”
I sighed, watching Panos’ eyes flick to the rearview mirror before focusing back on the road. “Well, she certainly hasn’t forgotten. And now I’m stuck in her house with her icy stares and exits whenever I enter a room.”
“I’m sorry, butterfly.”
