They stayed like that—quiet, unmoving—while Ginevra's tear-wet face remained tilted up, and Jayna gently, patiently dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue as if she were tending to something breakable.
Ginevra seemed a little embarrassed, as though she ought to take the tissue herself. She lifted her hand, hesitating.
But Jayna stopped her without a word.
Jayna's eyes—soft, intent, almost painfully tender—rested on the face she had never truly managed to forget. And for a moment, the two of them looked like one of those mythic pairs that people would write poems about and never quite dare to touch: Narcissus and Ganymede, beautiful enough to make onlookers lose their breath, preserved in the hush of a statue before time could ruin it.
Of course—if you ignored the utterly mistimed, irreverent sound of Jayna's stomach growling.
Jayna bit her lip, mortified, and met Ginevra's suddenly puzzled gaze.
She could've died on the spot. Honestly. If there was a wall nearby, she might've considered smashing her forehead into it just to escape the humiliation.
Why was it that when she wanted one perfect moment to last a little longer, life insisted on tossing in these ridiculous accidents?
"You haven't eaten?" Ginevra asked, her voice quiet, almost careful.
Jayna lifted a finger and hooked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Ginevra knew that gesture—knew it too well. It was what Jayna did when she was shy, when she didn't know where to put her hands, when she wanted to laugh something off but couldn't.
"I… I wasn't that hungry when I woke up," Jayna admitted slowly, the words coming out as if she had to coax them free. "So I had a glass of warm honey water, washed up, and… I borrowed your shower. I guess my stomach only just remembered it's supposed to eat."
The moment she finished, her stomach betrayed her again, louder this time—like it was demanding witnesses.
They looked at each other.
Jayna cracked first, letting out a helpless little laugh. "Oh my God," she whispered, as if that could somehow erase it. "I actually don't want to live anymore. This is so embarrassing…"
Ginevra's lashes were still damp; her eyes were still tender from crying. Yet in all that softness, there was only room for one thing—the familiar curve of Jayna's smile, the faint dimples that appeared at the corners like old secrets returning.
She's still her, Ginevra thought without daring to say it aloud. Still the same. Still beautiful in exactly the same way as eleven years ago—like some cruel, dazzling constant.
"I'll heat it up for you," Ginevra said.
She turned toward the kitchen, about to warm the breakfast she'd prepared earlier. Jayna watched her go, a little reluctant, still craving the last traces of that embrace—like warmth that had seeped into her bones and made her greedy.
She followed Ginevra out of the studio.
"I think you got taller," Jayna murmured from behind her, the words small, almost playful.
Ginevra froze.
Then she turned back and, very gently, covered Jayna's mouth with her hand—an unmistakable, quiet warning: don't.
Jayna blinked at her, confused, her breath catching against Ginevra's palm.
Ginevra lowered her hand. She looked away and began straightening the table, busying herself with something she didn't need to do.
"I've dreamed of you," she said, not looking up. "In the dream, you said that too."
Her voice stayed calm—too calm.
"And then you still left."
Jayna went silent, the air caught in her throat like something sharp.
From behind, Ginevra's back looked unbearably lonely. Jayna felt it like a bruise. She had been thinking of her. Really thinking of her. Maybe the way Jayna had—waking up with tears she couldn't explain, the ache lingering long after the dream had dissolved.
Jayna opened her mouth to say something—anything—
And then the doorbell rang.
The sound snapped through the room, abrupt and wrong.
Jayna glanced toward the kitchen. Ginevra was still heating the food.
So Jayna moved carefully to the door, barefoot-quiet, every nerve alert. She was a public figure; paranoia came with the job. She'd only been out here a moment, and already—were people so impatient they'd found her?
She leaned toward the video doorbell screen.
Outside stood a man wrapped up almost comically—cap low, face hidden, mask and sunglasses like he was about to rob a bank. He kept looking around, restless, as if afraid of being seen.
Jayna narrowed her eyes and kept watching without making a sound.
After waiting too long, the man seemed to panic. He yanked off the mask and sunglasses in one dramatic flourish, revealing a baby-faced grin, then proceeded to contort his face at the camera like a lunatic trying to prove he was harmless.
"Boss! It's me!" he stage-whispered at the doorbell camera. "Tom Hanley!"
Jayna stared at the screen, expression flattening into pure disbelief.
So it really was her assistant.
And the bigger question—why was Tom here?
Jayna turned her head slightly toward the kitchen and called softly, "Giny—did you tell my assistant I'm here?"
Ginevra nodded once.
Last night, Jayna's phone had nearly exploded with calls. Ginevra had answered because she recognized the name, and because—at the very least—Tom wasn't likely to be a threat.
"Fine," Jayna sighed, already mourning the fragile two-person world that had barely begun before a third person barged into it like a lamp turned on too suddenly.
She opened the door with a face that made it clear she was not pleased.
"Boss!!" Tom burst out, dropping bags of supplies at the threshold—things Jayna might need, plus an alarming amount of snacks. He lunged forward with both arms open, ready to swallow her in a bear hug.
Jayna recoiled with visible disgust. "Don't."
Tom halted mid-lunge, wounded.
Jayna waved him inside, sharp and quiet. "Get in here before you announce my location to the entire street."
Tom shuffled in, still clutching his heart like she'd just shot him.
"Boss, do you have any idea how worried I was?" he said, face crumpling dramatically, as if he were two seconds from sobbing. "I thought something happened to you."
Jayna crossed her arms and sat on the sofa like she belonged there—like she was the lady of the house and had always been. "Look at me. I'm fine. You're always panicking. When are you going to fix that?"
Tom nodded rapidly, eager to agree with anything.
Then his gaze dropped—and he froze.
Jayna was wearing black silk pajamas, elegant in the quietest, most intimate way. Tom remembered Jayna's wardrobe: burgundy satin slips, dramatic, borderline scandalous, the kind of sleepwear that looked like it had been designed for seduction, not comfort.
So this set—
These weren't hers.
These belonged to Dr. Volkova.
And Jayna was wearing them.
Tom's eyes widened, the gossip spark igniting in his soul.
"Boss," he ventured carefully, voice lowered, "um… where is Dr. Volkova?"
Jayna pressed a finger to the corner of her mouth, warning him to keep it down.
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she gathered her hair over one shoulder and deliberately arranged her face into something prim and sweet—as if she were performing femininity just to watch Tom squirm.
"Do I look nice today?" Jayna asked, brows lifting, eyes smiling like she already knew the answer.
Tom snapped into professional survival mode and gave her a thumbs-up so fast it nearly blurred. "Amazing. You look amazing."
Jayna nodded, satisfied, warmth blooming in her chest like a small private victory. She leaned back against the sofa with slow, languid confidence and asked, "Did anyone else find out you came here?"
"No," Tom said quickly. "Last night you went drinking at Mr. Beau's place, so I was going to pick you up. But I couldn't reach you, so I called Mr. Beau. He said you were taken home. By Dr. Volkova."
Jayna's smile faltered. "And… nothing else happened?"
She couldn't bring herself to ask Ginevra outright. So she asked Tom instead, pretending it was casual.
Tom hesitated. Beau hadn't really explained why Jayna had ended up leaving with Dr. Volkova—only that—
Only that Dr. Volkova was kind of terrifying.
But Tom had a finely tuned instinct for self-preservation.
"He didn't say much," Tom said carefully. "So… I guess nothing happened?"
Jayna scratched the back of her head, awkward. "I honestly don't remember anything."
"That's the problem!" Tom's voice rose before he caught himself. He dropped it again, pleading now. "You can't keep drinking like that. It was lucky it was Mr. Beau's place. If it had been someone else—someone with bad intentions—what if they'd taken advantage? And if paparazzi had caught you—boss, it would've been a disaster."
Jayna pouted, irritated. "I just had a drink. I didn't do anything else."
Tom shook his head, despairing. Jayna had always been like this—reckless, stubborn, too fearless for her own good.
There had to be someone in this world who could hold her in place. Someone who could keep her from tearing through life like a match thrown into gasoline. The company couldn't. Executives couldn't. And Tom—Tom was the one who suffered every time.
Then Jayna stood, stretched lazily, and a soft smile appeared without her meaning it to—like light slipping through a crack.
"But you won't have to worry about that anymore," she said.
Tom blinked. "Huh?"
Jayna's smile deepened, unguarded. "From now on, I won't go drinking alone."
Tom stared at her as if she'd just announced the sky had turned green. Jayna and alcohol had been a lifelong romance. Quitting wasn't even a concept that existed in her universe.
At that moment, Ginevra carried the warmed food to the table. She stepped out of the dining area—and only then noticed Tom.
Tom jolted to his feet instantly, posture straight, suddenly on his best behavior.
"Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Volkova," he said, polite and eager, reaching out a hand. "Let me introduce myself properly. My name is Tom Hanley. I'm Jaynara's assistant."
Ginevra glanced at him.
She didn't take his hand, but she wasn't rude either. "Hello," she said evenly.
Then she opened the fridge and, with a faint frown, asked, "Lemon water… or a Yakult?"
The second option felt oddly out of place in her own refrigerator—until her mind supplied the culprit, and her temples tightened with the memory of the suffocating's shamelessness.
"Lemon water," Tom said quickly, almost grateful for something uncomplicated. "Lemon water is perfect."
Jayna's eyes widened into a sharp glare. The audacity—accepting Ginevra's hospitality as if it were expected.
"Get it yourself," Jayna snapped. "What—do you need someone to deliver it to you too?"
Tom trudged to the fridge, crestfallen.
Ginevra's mouth curved, just slightly. She passed him a bottle anyway.
Then she looked at Jayna.
Jayna's whole face changed in an instant. The fierce expression vanished, replaced by something sweet and bashful; she fluttered her hand as if she'd never been cruel in her life.
"I'm not drinking that," Jayna said softly. "I'll eat what you made. Have you already eaten?"
"I have," Ginevra replied.
Tom's eyes practically bulged. He lifted the bottle to his mouth as if hiding behind it, watching Jayna's transformation like it was a magic trick performed at gunpoint.
Okay, he thought. Okay. Confirmed. Again.
Jayna and Dr. Volkova were not simple.
Jayna sat down and began eating the breakfast Ginevra had made for her. The warmed food smelled rich and comforting, the kind of scent that filled a home rather than a kitchen. Jayna swallowed, her throat tightening with sudden hunger—and something softer, deeper, harder to name.
Tom watched, and embarrassingly, his own throat bobbed too.
Ginevra noticed.
Without comment, she poured him a bowl of kasha and set it on the table.
"You should eat," she told him.
Tom lit up, delighted—then glanced at Jayna, checking whether he was allowed to accept generosity in her presence.
Jayna merely frowned and muttered, "Eat or don't. Don't make me invite you twice."
Tom grinned. This was Jayna: viciously proud, secretly soft, allergic to saying anything kind out loud.
He dragged a chair over and dug in. "Oh my God," he said around a spoonful, reverent. "This is incredible. Boss, it tastes exactly like the kasha we had at The Cafe Pushkin last time. Chef-level."
"Just eat," Jayna said, laughing despite herself. "You talk too much."
But her smile was bright, sweet; and inside her chest, pride unfurled like a quiet banner.
Giny's cooking has always been five-star.
And when someone praised Giny, Jayna felt it like praise of her own heart.
Tom has taste, she decided. I should give him a bigger bonus.
Watching her assistant eat at Ginevra's table so comfortably—watching the scene become, absurdly, domestic—Jayna felt a warm, dangerous happiness spread through her.
"Tom," Jayna said lightly, setting down her utensils, "have someone go by my place every few days and clean it. I won't be staying there for a while."
Tom frowned, confused. "Why? What happened?"
"Because…" Jayna let the word stretch out, teasingly slow.
She turned her head and glanced at Tom—then at the woman on the sofa, who was holding a medical journal like she was reading.
Like she was reading.
But the page had not turned even once.
Jayna paused on purpose, savoring the moment the way she used to savor stage silence before a punchline.
Then she said, calmly, brightly, as if it were the most natural decision in the world:
"I've decided I'm going to live here for now."
Tom's spoon clattered into his bowl. He sat there like a stunned mannequin, eyes wide, brain refusing to process the sentence.
Across the room, Ginevra lifted her coffee—and her hand shook, just slightly, around the handle. A couple of drops splashed onto the back of her hand, dark against pale skin.
She was turned partly away from Jayna.
So Jayna didn't see the subtle shift in her expression—the brief, involuntary flicker of something real, something that had no place in her controlled face.
Jayna saw Tom's shock.
She saw the tiny tremor of the coffee cup.
And she smiled, eyes glinting with the thrill of declaring war.
"And it starts today," Jayna added.
Eleven years ago, she hadn't held on.
Eleven years ago, she'd let the most important thing slip through her fingers, and she had punished herself for it in a hundred quiet ways.
But starting today, she would take Ginevra Volkova and make her hers—slowly, stubbornly, without letting the world pry them apart again.
She wondered, faintly amused, whether Giny—sweet, easily flustered, always on the verge of tears—could understand the tenderness inside Jayna's ruthlessness.
What Jayna didn't understand—
What Jayna couldn't possibly know—
Was that this wasn't just a love offensive.
It was a rabbit stepping willingly into the wolf's mouth.