Chapter 157

“A pen,” I repeat, as if saying it again will somehow make this stupid lie more believable. “Just had to, uh… write down a thought so I don’t forget. Something to tell Anastasia.”

It would be insane if he believes me. I’m clutching evidence of his betrayal to my chest, and he’s standing there practically naked. Yet somehow I’m the one who feels exposed.

There’s a moment—suspended, crystallized in time—where I think he’s going to call me on my bullshit.

Then his mouth curves into a smile. “Bottom drawer of my desk,” he says. “Blue fountain pens. Take whichever you like.”

Relief floods me—hot, liquid, shameful. “Thanks,” I mumble, shoving the papers back into his briefcase with trembling hands. “I’ll just… I’m going to check on Sofi.”

I flee before he can respond. The hallway stretches before me like one of the endless ones in a nightmare, and I half-expect to feel his hand on my shoulder at any moment, dragging me back to face what I’ve discovered.

It doesn’t come.

I make it to Sofiya’s nursery and lock the door behind me, leaning against it as if I could physically hold back the truth. My daughter sleeps in her crib, oblivious to the fact that her father has an escape hatch built for one.

Cayman Islands. Offshore accounts. Property deeds.

All in his name. Not mine. Not ours. His.

Then we build a different one. Whatever it takes.

His words echo in my head and take on a sinister new meaning. He wasn’t talking about building a new life with me. He was talking about the one he’s already engineered for himself.

If he decides we aren’t good enough to bring with him.

I slide down to the floor, knees drawn to my chest, and try to regulate my breathing before I hyperventilate and wake Sofiya. The panic claws at my throat. It hurts. God, it hurts.

This is what I get for hoping. For believing. For letting myself imagine a future where we’re happy, where we have another child, where we escape the darkness together.

Someone raps on the door.

“Rowan?” Vince’s voice filters through the wood, deceptively gentle. “Everything okay in there?”

I rise on shaky legs, smoothing my shirt, wiping my face. “Fine,” I call back. “Just checking on her.”

“Can I come in?”

No. Fuck no. Go back to planning your getaway that doesn’t include us.

“Of course.”

I unlock the door, stepping back as he enters. He’s dressed now—dark jeans, charcoal henley that hugs the muscled planes of his chest. His hair is still damp from the shower, silver strands catching the soft light from Sofiya’s night lamp.

He looks like a god. He always fucking does.

“She’s still sleeping,” I say unnecessarily. “Fever completely gone.”

Vince crosses to our daughter, his massive frame somehow delicate as he leans over her sleeping form. The tenderness in his gaze makes my heart twist painfully in my chest.

How can he look at her like that while planning to abandon her?

“Did you find your pen?” he asks without looking at me.

“What? Oh. Uh, no. I got sidetracked.” I gesture vaguely at Sofiya.

He straightens, eyes searching my face. I feel flayed open beneath that penetrating gaze. “You’ve been crying.”

“Hormones.” I shrug. “False pregnancy, remember? My body’s confused.” “Rowan.” Just my name, but it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken questions.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Vince stares at me with those blue eyes. He waits. Waits. And then… “Alright. I’m here if you need me.” He glances down at Sofi. “If either of you need me.”

I nod. “Yep. I know. Thanks.”

He looks at me a little longer. Then he sighs and retreats toward the hallway.

“Vince?” I call as he reaches the door.

He turns, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Do you…?”

The words die in my throat. What can I ask that wouldn’t reveal what I know?

Do you love me enough to take me with you when you go? Do you ever think about leaving us behind?

“Never mind,” I finish lamely.

He watches me for one last excruciating moment, then nods again and disappears into the hallway.

I sag against Sofiya’s crib, my knees threatening to buckle. A sob claws its way up my throat, but I press my fist against my mouth to trap it. My daughter doesn’t need to hear her mother falling apart.

I reach into the crib and adjust her blanket. “What are we going to do, Sofi?” I whisper, fingers gently stroking her dark hair. “What if Daddy decides he’s better off without us?”

She doesn’t answer, of course. But his secrets answer for him.

I glance at the door where Vince vanished—my husband, my salvation, my destruction. All wrapped in one devastatingly beautiful package.

When he looked at me just now, did he see the mother of his child?

Or did he see a complication?

Years ago, I thought catching Vince’s attention was the hardest thing in the world. Now, I realize keeping it might be even harder.

Trust, once broken, doesn’t heal cleanly. It scars. Warps. Creates weak points where pressure can be applied until everything shatters again.

And I am so, so tired of breaking.

43

VINCE

I don’t like the way she’s looking at me.

Ever since I came home from Costa Rica, Rowan’s eyes track me around rooms like I’m a wild animal she expects to turn on her at any moment.

Not that there isn’t a kernel of truth to that—I am a predator. I’ve spent my life becoming one.

But never toward her. Never toward my family.

The negative pregnancy test rattled her more than she wants to admit; that much is clear. But there’s something else—something darker—eclipsing her usual fire.

It’s in all the signs. The way she clutched those papers to her chest when I caught her rifling through my briefcase. The way she scurried out of our bedroom with panic bleeding from every pore.

She found something. And whatever it was, it’s making her look at me the way people look at snakes in glass terrariums: wondering if the glass is thick enough to keep them safe.

I’m still trying to figure out exactly what she discovered when Arkady marches into my study without knocking, phone pressed to his ear, eyes wide with what can only be described as pure fucking glee.

“The Solovyovs are crumbling,” he announces, tossing a thick folder onto my desk. “The FBI raid happened twenty minutes ago. Federal agents are swarming their warehouses from Brighton Beach to Staten Island.”

I lean forward and pass an eye over the surveillance photos inside the folder. The picture they paint is grim, if you’re in the Solovyov business. Men in tactical gear hauling crates from buildings. Solovyov lieutenants in handcuffs being shoved into unmarked vans. A glimpse of Agent Carver’s smug face directing operations, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.

“What exactly did you give the FBI?” I ask Arkady. “The intel Rowan provided couldn’t have been this comprehensive.”

“That’s just it.” He beams as he flops into the chair across from me. “We didn’t have to give them anything beyond the initial tip. The momentum of their investigation did the rest. Carver’s people got one thread and pulled until the whole fucking sweater unraveled.”

My eyes narrow. “And our operation?”

“Utterly and completely untouched. Damn near virginal, baby.” He spreads his hands and laughs incredulously. “The FBI is so focused on the Solovyovs they haven’t spared a single glance in our direction. It’s like we’ve become goddamn invisible.”