Chapter 138
Ivan POV
Harry is such a cutie. Seriously, he would've been wasted on Dorian.
Look at him now—his cheeks turn red the second Mason's name comes up. Adorable.
We make small talk while Mason is gone. Harry's different these days—more confident, less haunted. The dark cloud that used to follow him has lifted, and I like this version of him. He laughs easier now. He belongs in the spotlight.
Mason comes back into the living room, two glasses in hand, looking suspiciously domestic for an A-list star. He gives me my orange juice and then, without thinking, hands the other to Harry.
Aww.
The way Harry lights up just from that tiny gesture? My heart.
They think they're subtle. They are not subtle.
We talk about random things—shows, acting gigs, the nightmare security system they just went through. Meanwhile, I have front row seats to their little love bubble. The subtle shoulder brushes, the lingering glances. I might vomit from how cute they are.
"So," Mason finally says, squinting at me.
"Why has your face basically disappeared? You haven't been photographed in months."
"Is it your husband?" he adds in a whisper, like Zander is some ghost who'll appear if summoned three times.
I smirk. "Well… kinda true."
"Are you okay with it? Being isolated like this?" Harry asks, genuine concern in his eyes.
How sweet.
The truth is, I don't notice time passing. Most of my days are naps and lounging around. For the first time in years, I'm not rushing from shoot to shoot, event to event. I needed this.
Though if I'm being honest, even if Zander locked me up in some sex dungeon I wouldn't want to be saved.
"Zander's just overprotective," I shrug. "Who knows what my in-laws might try."
"Would they really hurt you?" Harry asks.
"If my husband, who grew up with them, worries for my safety? I'd say that's with good reason." I reply evenly.
They exchange a look. Sweet little concerned glances. It warms something in my chest.
"Still…" Harry starts gently.
"I don't mind," I reassure him. "Honestly, this feels like a much-needed vacation." I yawn mid-sentence. "Besides…"
I grab the hem of my oversized shirt and tug it up.
Both of them gasp.
Harry's jaw drops. Mason blinks like his brain just blue-screened.
"Yep." I say, completely deadpan. "Limited edition bun-in-the-oven. Billionaire-sponsored."
Harry recovers first.
"Oh my god. Congratulations!"
"Right?!" I grin, patting my barely-there bump. "Something about being fragile right now. Or at least that's Zander's excuse for turning me into a houseplant."
"It… makes a lot of sense now," Mason admits.
I waggle my brows at him. "Don't get jealous, Mr. Greene. I'm sure you and Harry will bake your own bun someday."
Harry immediately chokes on air, face turning crimson. Mason pats his back, eyes suspiciously glinting with amusement.
"Can you not terrorize your guests?" a dry voice says from behind us.
I don't even turn around. "I was just telling the truth," I defend, as Zander leans down and plants a kiss on my cheek.
He looks unfairly good in his tailored coat, and his presence fills the room like he owns it—which, well, he does.
"I came back to grab something I forgot," he explains.
"Go ahead," I mumble. I'm so sleepy now. Maybe I should—
Strong arms suddenly wrap around me. One under my knees, one at my back, and I'm scooped up bridal-style like I weigh nothing. My arms automatically wrap around his neck.
"Yeah, I'll just drop you off in bed on my way," he says.
"Nooo… I have visitors," I whine.
"You can barely keep your eyes open," he points out.
Harry waves me off, smiling. "We'll come by again."
"Yeah," Mason agrees. "You need the rest."
"Fine, you win," I grumble, letting my head rest on Zander's shoulder.
*
"That's enough ice cream," Zander says like he's auditioning to be the dessert police.
"What are you, the ice cream police?" I snap back. He doesn't answer, just confiscates the bowl. Tyranny.
I stick my tongue out at him and start channel surfing. Click, click—wait, was that my name?
"Ivan Orlov—" me?
I flip back. Oh good, my favorite kind of trash TV: a gossip panel.
I flip back. Oh good, my favorite kind of trash TV: a gossip panel.
Onscreen, one of the hosts says, "The model—well, ex-model turned glorified trophy husband of billionaire Zander Vale—"
"Well, they're not wrong," I mutter, grabbing a blanket like I'm settling in for my own roast.
Zander returns, sits beside me in the mini-theater. Why watch on a normal screen when you can have this massive cinematic experience of people gossiping about you? He glances at the screen and groans.
"You've got to stop watching these," he sighs.
"Why? They're entertaining. Free PR with a laugh track." I grin. He exhales in defeat.
The panel rolls a clip montage. "A couple of months ago, he was in a full social media war with his in-laws." Cue highlight reel of my finest moments. They even play my most iconic line: "I'd rather knit sweaters for feral cats than attend another Vale gala."
"Look at that handsome man," I tell Zander, pointing at myself.He snorts.
Then the host perks up: "It's been quiet lately apart from his occasional posts, but today we have a new exclusive!"
Oh?
"Straight from Mason Greene—this year's actor of the year—is this picture." And up on the screen: me and Zander. I'm on the couch, Zander leaning over to kiss my cheek. When did Mason take that? Sneaky.
A chorus of oohs and aahs. I always look amazing, and thank God the shirt hides my baby bump.
"Clearly, they're still in the honeymoon phase."
"This squashes those divorce rumors."
"Mason captioned it: 'How long is the honeymoon phase?'"
One of the hosts slams the table. "I'm tired of denying it. I love Ivan!"
"Me too," another says.
See? Despite my in-laws' ongoing smear campaign, people are fickle. Hating me got old.
"All he's done is look good, be confident, and marry a hot rich man."
"Exactly!" I cheer at the screen. Zander chuckles.
"What? They're not wrong," I tell him.
"No, no, they're not," he admits, kissing my hair. Good man.
They flash another gif—Zander carrying me bridal-style off the couch. Mason really is sneaky.
One panelist sighs dramatically: "If I had a man like Zander, I too would raise my middle finger to the world."
"But will the marriage survive without the in-laws' blessing?"
"Girl, fuck the in-laws," another interrupts. At that, both Zander and I snort-laugh loudly.
"Okay, maybe this panel isn't as bad as the others," Zander admits.
Then one host squints at the screen. "You all keep talking like Zander's the prize. Have you seen Ivan? Seriously, look at him."
"That one's very smart," Zander says deadpan. I stare at him in disbelief. This man is hopeless.
We watch the segment devolve into wild (but oddly accurate) theories about Harry and Mason. I lean my head on Zander's shoulder.
I wish I could bottle this peace in feeling.