Chapter 156

But just when I’ve decided to bury this episode in my heart forever, I hear the security system disarm downstairs.

Then footsteps. The heavy tread of footsteps I would recognize even if I were blindfolded, gagged, half-dead.

My body responds before my mind catches up—pulse quickening, skin warming, that Pavlovian response to Vince’s proximity that never quite faded, not even after all this time.

I wipe my eyes and try to pull myself together.

I fail spectacularly.

And so he finds me sitting on the edge of our bed, staring at that damn drawer. I don’t need to look up to know he’s filling the doorway, cataloging every detail of my posture, my unwashed hair, my red-rimmed eyes.

“Rowan.” He exhales. “What’s wrong?”

I’ve rehearsed this conversation in my head a thousand times since that second test. All of that practice evaporates like morning dew in August.

“Nothing,” I lie, wiping furiously at fresh tears. “Just tired. Sofiya’s been —”

“Don’t.” He cuts through my bullshit that easily. “Not with me.”

He crosses the room in long strides and kneels before me. His hands cup my face, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Tell me.”

And just like that, the dam breaks.

“I thought I was pregnant. I took a test while you were gone. It was positive.”

His entire body goes still. His eyes—those fucking gorgeous blue eyes— dilate until only a thin ring of color remains. “You’re pregnant?”

“No. That’s the fucked-up part. I took another test yesterday. Negative. The first one was just a false positive, I guess.”

“I see.” His face is unreadable. “And you’re upset about this.”

“I don’t know what I am.” I swallow and knuckle at my eyes again. “When I thought I was pregnant, I was terrified. Another child? Now? With Solovyov’s men attacking our shipments and your father still under house arrest and who knows what else still out there?” I shake my head, fresh tears spilling over. “It seemed like the cruelest joke.”

“But…?”

“But then when the second test was negative, I was…” I struggle for the word, but it won’t come.

“Devastated.”

“Yes. And then I felt like the most selfish asshole who’s ever lived. What does that make me?”

“Human,” Vince says at once. “It makes you human.”

I pull away from him, anger suddenly rising like bile in my throat. “Don’t fucking pacify me, Vince. We both know our lives are anything but human. We live behind walls guarded by killers. Our daughter has never been to a public park. The last time we left this compound together was for Sofiya’s christening, and someone tried to fucking kill us.”

“And you still want another child.”

“Yes!” I shout, surprising myself with the ferocity of it. “I do. What does that say about me? And don’t say human. Because we both know that’s utter bullshit. We haven’t been ‘human’ for a long time.”

Vince rises, paces the length of our bedroom. His shoulders are rigid beneath his dress shirt, the line of his jaw sharp enough to slice me wide open.

“When you thought you were pregnant,” he says carefully, “why didn’t you call me?”

I don’t have to think hard to answer that. “Because I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of what you’d do.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Of how far you’d go to protect us.”

He flinches as if I’ve physically struck him. “Is that what you think?” he asks. “That I’m looking for excuses to be a monster?”

“No.” I stand, close the distance between us. “I think you’re trying so fucking hard not to be one that sometimes you overcompensate in ways that terrify me.”

“Like at the hospital.”

“Like at the hospital,” I confirm. “Vince, you were ready to execute the doctors because Sofiya had a fever.”

He doesn’t deny it. His hand comes up, traces the curve of my cheek with tenderness.

He is quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then something changes in his face—a decision made, a path chosen.

“I’ve been thinking about Costa Rica,” he says finally. “The development there is nearly complete. Legitimate business, away from New York. Away from my father, from the Solovyovs, from Grigor.”

My breath catches. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying there are alternatives to this life. Ways to protect our family that don’t involve armed guards and panic rooms.” His fingers slide into my hair, cradling my skull. “If you want another child, Rowan, we’ll have another child. And we’ll find a way to keep them safe that doesn’t turn me into someone you fear.”

Hope unfurls in my chest—fragile, tender, but undeniably there.

“Do you mean that?” I whisper.

“I mean it.” His forehead presses against mine. “I’ve made promises to you before that I’ve broken. I’ve lied to protect you, controlled you to keep you safe. But this—” His hand drops to my still-flat stomach, rests there with reverent gentleness. “This promise I’ll keep.”

Something in his certainty makes me ache with both longing and fear. We’ve been here before—grand declarations, solemn vows. But the world keeps dragging us back into darkness despite our best efforts to honor what we say.

“You can’t know that,” I murmur against his lips. “You can’t promise we’ll be safe, that our children will be safe. Not in this life.”

“Then we build a different one.” His kiss tastes like desperation and determination in equal measure. “Whatever it takes.”

I want to believe him. God, I want it so badly I can taste it—sharp and sweet on my tongue like blood and honey.

But experience has taught me the price of hope.

“Show me,” I challenge, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Not words, Vince. Show me this different life is possible before we bring another child into this one.”

His eyes darken to midnight, something dangerous and thrilling burning hot behind them.

“Watch me.”

42

ROWAN

Vince goes to shower off the airplane germs, leaving his briefcase resting against the bedpost. I sit there for a while. It’s nice to hear the hum of the hot water, the soft sighs that mean he’s home again. I missed him more than I realized, I think.

Show me this different life is possible before we bring another child into this one.

My own words haunt me as I stare at his briefcase. The black leather is worn at the corners, a physical manifestation of the man who carries it— polished, expensive, but fraying at the edges where no one is supposed to notice.

I shouldn’t do it.

But when has that ever stopped me?

The sound of water continues to mask my movements as I pop open the gold latches. Inside, everything is meticulously organized, each document in its proper place.

I rifle through papers, not sure what I’m looking for until I find it. A folder labeled “Cayman Islands,” tucked behind contracts and shipment manifests.

Something cold slithers down my spine as I pull it out, heart thumping against my ribs like it’s trying to escape before the rest of me discovers what it already knows.

The first page is a bank statement. Seven figures.

All in Vince’s name.

The second is a property deed. Beachfront. Also solely in his name.

My hands tremble as I flip through document after document—offshore accounts, investments, property holdings—a ghost life built in secret, ready to be inhabited at a moment’s notice.

By one person.

Not three.

“What the fuck?” I whisper to the empty room.

Footsteps. The shower’s stopped. I scramble to replace the folder exactly as I found it, but my shaking hands betray me. Papers slide across the floor in every direction.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam along with my freshly-showered husband. His towel rides sinfully low on those cut hips, water droplets tracking down his chest like they’re worshipping at the altar of Vincent Akopov.

I want to hate how beautiful he is. How easily his body distracts from the ugliness in my hands.

“Rowan?” His voice has that dangerous edge that means I’ve been caught. “What are you doing?”

I clutch the hastily gathered papers to my chest as if they might shield me from the bullet I’m about to take.

“Nothing.” The lie sits between us like a third person in the room. “Just looking for a pen.”

His eyes flick from my face to the folder in my death grip. His jaw ticks once, twice. The muscle there jumps like it’s trying to escape.