Maxim’s face is like Isaak’s reflected in a rippling pond. The similarities are there, but they’re subtle, blurred. Isaak is sharp and unrelenting and crisp. Maxim is a muddled imitation of him.
The moment they’re in the same space, the atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. Tangibly. Like it’s tightening, shrinking, all the available space condensing down and drawing the three of us closer together.
I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to alleviate the heaviness in my heart.
I can’t help but stare at Isaak, wondering how he could spend all this time with me—how he could talk to me, smile with me, f**k me—and not once mention that he had my daughter under the same f*****g roof.
I can feel the knife in my back. It hurts more than I could have ever imagined.
“Time’s up,” Isaak sa
