Anya returned from the kitchen drying her hands on a neatly folded towel, her expression settled into something deliberate.
"Well," she announced, drawing the word out as she crossed the room, "chores are done. Misha has been fed in the proper way. Now it is time for us to chat."
She pulled a sturdy wooden chair closer to his and lowered herself into it with quiet authority. Not across from him. Beside him.
Like she used to when he was a boy who had scraped a knee but refused to cry.
Michael shifted slightly in his seat, bracing himself without appearing to.
She studied him openly for a moment.
Then her voice softened.
"I am sorry," she said simply. "About little Adele."
The name settled between them like fragile glass.
He did not look away from the fire.
"Thank you," he replied.
"I wanted to come," she continued. "To the funeral. I packed black dress. I even told Katya's mother I would go."
She paused.
"But then I thought of your mother."
Her mouth tightened faintly.
"And I did not trust myself to remain… polite."
Michael almost smiled at that.
"It was the right choice," he said quietly. "Monica is quite unpredictable."
"That woman has always been unpredictable," Anya muttered.
She clasped her hands in her lap.
"You know she hates the sight of me."
He did not deny it.
"She hates what I represent," Anya went on, eyes sharpening. "I was the one who told you to sit up straight. To speak honestly. To value substance over spectacle. She preferred spectacle."
There was no bitterness in her voice. Only clarity.
"She would disappear for weeks," Anya said, gaze distant now. "Parties. Luncheons. Charity galas. Always chasing some new status. And when she returned, she was either exhausted or displeased."
Michael remembered.
The faint scent of perfume that didn't belong to the house. The echo of heels in hallways at midnight. The way conversations with his mother often felt like performance reviews rather than affection.
"She neglected you," Anya said bluntly. "And in the little time she did give, she was cold. Hard. As if affection was weakness."
Michael's jaw shifted slightly, but he did not argue.
"She hated that you would come to me instead," Anya continued. "That when you were ill, you called for me. That when you had questions, you asked me. She could not tolerate that I was a mother in ways she did not wish to be."
Silence lingered.
The fire cracked softly.
"I do not regret it," Anya added, turning to him fully now. "If she resents me, that is her burden."
Michael finally looked at her.
"I never wanted you to feel unwelcome," he said.
She waved a hand dismissively.
"I am old Russian woman. I have survived worse than jealous socialite."
That drew a lot of laughter from him because of how small it made Monica seem.
Her expression softened again.
"Tell me," she said. "Has she done any bad recently?"
He hesitated only briefly.
Then he told her about the banquet. And the courses of food, the way Monica had acted suspiciously, of him getting poisoned, of Rosa, and finally, about the doctor's suspicions.
He did not dramatize it.
He did not soften it either.
Anya listened without interrupting, but her face changed with every detail. By the time he finished, she looked genuinely appalled.
"She drugged you?" she said, disbelief and fury tangled together. "Her own son?"
"That appears to be the case."
"For what?" she demanded. "To embarrass you? To trap you?"
He leaned back slightly.
"The assumption is that she hoped to maneuver me into proximity with someone she finds advantageous."
Anya made a sharp sound of disgust.
"Another sham marriage," she said flatly. "Some girl with money. Or connections. Or both."
She shook her head.
"Does this woman even know what good marriage is supposed to be?" she asked. "It is not business merger. It is not hunting expedition."
Her eyes flashed.
"Marriage is partnership. Respect. Protection. Stability. Not spectacle."
Michael stared at the fire again.
For a moment, he saw Adele's small hand curled around his finger. The softness of her hair against his sleeve.
Anya noticed the shift in his gaze.
"What happened to Allie?" she asked more gently. "I heard whispers. Nothing clear."
He took a slow breath.
"She had Adele without marrying me," he said. "When the Delante family's finances declined, she reassessed her options."
Anya's lips pressed thin.
"She married a foreigner," he continued. "Wealthier. Established in Italy. She left."
"And Adele?"
"She stayed with me."
Anya closed her eyes briefly.
"So she traded you for money."
"That would be a blunt but accurate summary."
Anya's jaw tightened.
"I never liked her," she said bluntly. "Even when she smiled sweetly."
Michael did not appear surprised.
"There was something calculating in her eyes," Anya continued. "And your mother encouraged it.She thought Allie was suitable."
"Of course she did," Anya scoffed as she continued, "Your mother recognizes ambition when she sees it."
She leaned forward slightly.
"It was bad enough she tricked you into that relationship," she said firmly. "You were young. Still trying to prove yourself. And she used that."
Michael's expression darkened just a fraction.
"I allowed it," he said.
"You trusted your mother," Anya corrected. "That is not crime."
The words settled heavier than he expected.
She reached over and placed her hand over his — a gesture so natural it startled him less this time.
"Listen to me," she said quietly. "Whatever you do… do not accept this new woman she is trying to force into your life."
He met her gaze.
"She will dress it as opportunity," Anya went on. "As duty. As family honor. But Monica only thinks of Monica."
There was no venom in her voice.
Just certainty.
"She causes trouble," Anya said. "For everyone around her. Especially you. Because you are both her pride and her instrument."
He absorbed that silently.
"She does not see you as son with grief," Anya continued. "Or as father who lost child. She sees you as asset."
The bluntness did not wound him.
It clarified.
"You deserve better," she added firmly. "You deserve marriage built on choice. On respect. Not manipulation."
He sat quietly for a long moment.
Outside, wind stirred faintly through the honeysuckles.
Inside, the fire burned steady.
"I do not intend to marry anyone at present," he said at last.
"Good," Anya replied at once. "Then do not let her rush you."
He allowed himself a small, tired smile.
"She underestimates how little control she now has."
Anya's eyes sharpened.
"Do not underestimate her either."
That made him glance at her more seriously.
"She is desperate," Anya said. "Desperate people are creative."
He considered that.
"I will handle it," he said.
"I know you will," she replied. "But do not handle it alone."
The words hung there.
He had spent years handling everything alone. Boardrooms, legal battles, a child's illness and finally - his child's funeral.
"I am not a boy anymore," he said quietly.
"No," Anya agreed. "But even grown men need counsel."
He looked at her then — truly looked.
At the lines around her eyes. The steel still present beneath softness. The intelligence that had shaped him more than anyone else.
"I appreciate your advice," he said.
It was not a dramatic declaration.
But it was sincere.
She squeezed his hand once before releasing it.
"Good," Anya said firmly after he thanked her for the advice. She looked toward the window where pale sunlight filtered across the garden.
"We will not sit all day like old furniture," she declared. "Katya is still home. I cannot wander far. But we will take small walk around garden."
Michael raised a brow.
"After that meal?"
"Especially after that meal," she replied. "You must move or you will sink into floorboards."
He stood up and put on his coat.
The air outside had warmed slightly since he arrived, but it still held the crispness of morning. Dew clung to the edges of leaves.
They walked slowly along the curved stone path.
Anya did not rush. She never did when something mattered.
For a while they said nothing. Gravel crunched softly beneath their shoes. Somewhere nearby, a bird startled from a hedge.
Then she spoke.
"I wish," she said, almost casually, "that you will find true love."
He didn't answer immediately.
She continued walking.
"You have known passion," she went on. "You have known responsibility. You have known grief." She looked up at him. "But not peace in marriage."
Michael kept his gaze forward.
He did not want to crush her hope. It felt too earnest to dismiss.
But inside, something tightened — not with pain but out of habit.
'True love'
He used to believe in it. Or something close enough to it.
"I'm not certain it's necessary," he said lightly.
She made a small dismissive sound.
"It is not necessary to breathe either," she said. "But it makes life more pleasant."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth despite himself.
He said nothing more.
Internally, though, a quiet cynicism stirred.
True love felt like a luxury item — curated for others. For people who did not grow up as bargaining chips in social games, for those whose mothers did not treat marriage as leverage.
Perhaps it existed.
Just not for him.
He kept that thought to himself.
They turned a bend in the path, where the garden widened slightly. At the far edge stood a small roadside chapel — the kind travelers might stop at for a brief prayer. Whitewashed walls. A simple wooden cross above the door. A candle shelf inside.
It was modest but carefully kept.
Anya slowed her steps.
"We will stop," she said.
Michael glanced at the structure.
"For what?"
"To pray."
He sighed quietly.
"Anya."
She turned toward him, her eyes already firm.
"As I grow older," she said, "my belief grows stronger. When I was young, I believed because I was told to. Now I believe because I have seen enough to know I am not in control of everything."
He slipped his hands into his coat pockets.
"I don't believe in God," he said evenly.
She studied him for a bit.
"Do you believe you control everything?" she asked.
"No."
"Do you believe suffering has no meaning?"
"I believe it happens," he replied. "Meaning is optional."
She nodded slowly.
"You are angry," she said softly.
He didn't deny it.
She stepped closer to the chapel door.
"I think it's a fruitless attempt," he admitted. "Prayer."
"It doesn't hurt to try," she said gently. "Let's do it."
He looked at her.
For a moment, he considered refusing outright.
But she was old. And hopeful. And had loved him in ways no one else had when he was small and confused and trying too hard to be strong.
Resisting her felt unnecessary.
"Fine," he said at last.
She opened the chapel door.
Inside, it smelled faintly of wax and old wood. A few candles burned low. Sunlight filtered through a narrow window, illuminating the small icon on the wall — gold halo catching the light.
They stood side by side.
Anya crossed herself in the Russian Orthodox manner — slow, reverent.
Michael did not imitate her. He simply stood.
She bowed her head.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then she began to pray.
"Father in Heaven," she said softly, "You know this child. You knew him before I held him. You saw him when he was small and lonely. You saw him when he grew strong too quickly. You saw him when he became father. And when he became grieving father."
The words were simple but struck deeper than polished speeches ever could.
"Give him wisdom," she continued. "Give him patience. Protect him from those who wish to use him."
Her hand moved gently to rest against his sleeve.
"And if it be Your will," she said, voice trembling just slightly now, "bring him a love that is kind and that does not bargain. A love that stays. All this I pray, in Jesus' name."
"Amen," she said simply.