Chapter 134
Zander
Ivan is happily eating his latest craving his so-called— gag — chocolate-dipped pickle.
The crunch echoes through the quiet kitchen, followed by a moan that makes me seriously question my life choices. His entire face lights up, eyes fluttering as though he's tasting ambrosia.
I don't understand. I don't want to understand. But I love him. Which apparently means I stand here watching the man I married dip another pickle into melted chocolate like it's the holy grail of fine dining.
"You don't understand food," he scolds me the second he catches my expression. "Stop looking at me like that."
"I definitely do not," I agree flatly.
"Try it." He waves the dripping pickle at me like a threat.
"No, thank you." I lean back in my chair.
"Please." He blinks at me with exaggerated puppy-dog eyes.
"No. They are all yours."
"Just a bite," he wheedles.
I dodge the pickle as it comes dangerously close to my lips. "I'd rather die."
He gasps, clutching his chest. "Don't you love me?" His voice cracks, and suddenly there are tears in his eyes—actual tears. Oh no.
Damn it.
"Fine," I grumble, snatching the thing and taking the smallest possible bite.
The salt, the sour, the sweet—every part of it collides on my tongue in what I can only describe as hell's recipe. My face contorts. Ivan's entire expression brightens with triumph.
"See? Delicious!"
***
Maksim
I stand by the doorway, weighed down with half a dozen shopping bags and wondering how my life came to this.
Apparently my job description has evolved. Not just driver. Not just bodyguard. Oh no. Now I'm also personal shopper, errand boy, and unwilling witness to whatever that was.
Earlier, Ivan insisted on a three-hour spree for baby clothes. Three hours. I was dragged along via video call as he compared bib patterns, sock colors, and stroller brands like he was preparing for battle.
"Pastel yellow or mint green?" he'd asked, holding up two nearly identical pairs of socks.
"Doesn't matter," I'd said.
"It matters," he'd snapped, then called Zander over for backup.
So now I'm here, arms aching, having survived baby-shopping purgatory only to walk in on my ex-boss being force-fed chocolate pickles. Clearly, other people in the world are fighting harder battles than I am.
"Maksim, you're here!" Ivan cries, leaping up the second he notices me. He stumbles, of course, because grace is not in his vocabulary.
"Careful," Zander scolds, already reaching for him, but Ivan ignores the warning and rushes toward me.
He snatches a bag straight from my arm and digs through it with wild-eyed excitement. A moment later he pulls out the tiniest onesie I've ever seen.
"Oh my god, look! It's so tiny and cute!" His voice cracks into a squeal as he presses the fabric against his stomach like the baby might pop out just to try it on.
"Adorable," I say flatly.
"Zander, look at it!" Ivan thrusts it toward him. "It's tiny!"
And Zander—stoic, ruthless, terrifying Zander Vale—just smiles like a fool. No flinch at the pitch of his husband's voice. No grimace at the dramatics. Just pure, indulgent fondness.
Love makes people idiots. That's the only explanation.
I take a few careful steps backward, trying not to draw attention to myself. If Ivan notices me, I'll be dragged into another round of baby-clothing commentary, and I don't have the stamina for that.
***
Zander
Ivan presses the onesie against his flat stomach again, his whole face shining with joy. I think my chest might split open from the sight.
"Can you believe it?" he whispers, voice soft now, eyes big and glassy.
"Yes," I murmur, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. "And it'll be even more beautiful when it's filled."
His cheeks flush pink. He leans into me, still holding the onesie to himself like it's a treasure.
Maksim looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, but I catch the twitch of his mouth—the smallest hint of a smile he's trying very hard to suppress.