I manage a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “This gives a whole new meaning to protective custody.”
Snow taps the windows as we ride north. Traffic slows around Rockefeller Center, tourists clustering near the lit-up tree, phones held high. I press my hand to my stomach, still flat for now, harboring a new life and new leverage.
The taxi merges onto Fifth. The Angeloff building rises ahead, all glass and authority. A corner office is still ablaze, a silhouette I know all too well going over spreadsheets, running his empire.
Trina follows my gaze and smiles. “Go,” she whispers as the car stops. “I’ll give you a buzz later.”
I step onto the sidewalk, snowflakes landing on my lashes, folder clutched like a secret scroll. Light from Vlad’s floor glows steady, waiting. I inhale crisp air scented with roasted chestnuts from a vendor cart and start toward the revolving door.
CHAPTER 27
TERESA
I’m holding the folder so tightly it’s as if it were contraband.
By the time the elevator whooshes up Angeloff Tower, every ounce of certainty I’d found in Dr. Renard’s office has started to leak out through the seams.
Tell him now,common sense chants.
What if he panics? What if he’s furious? What if he does the Vlad thing—replaces physicians with hit squads and wraps me in five layers of Kevlar until the baby’s born?
The elevator glides to a stop on the executive floor before I can argue myself into or out of anything. The doors open to reveal two junior analysts hunched over dual monitors, headphones on, racking up after-holiday overtime. The usual evening bustle is long gone, the space dim and quiet.
Vlad’s office door is slightly ajar, light slicing across the hallway carpet. I can hear the low growl of Vlad’s clipped replies to whomever is on the other end of the phone. Tension hums like a live wire and my pulse kicks. Maybe this is not the best moment.
I push the door open a tad. He turns, giving me a wave and I enter, sliding into a chair as he finishes the call.
“Teresa. You came here from home? Don’t tell me you slipped out without telling the guards again.” His eyes flick to the envelope held tightly against my chest, then to my face. His eyes reveal concern and preoccupation.
I clear my throat. “Rough phone call?”
“Nothing too bad,” he answers, his gaze fixed on me, expression easing a fraction. “Everything alright with you?”
The question lands like a challenge. My fingers grasp the folder tighter.Now,my conscience urges. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
“Just a busy day,” I manage. Which, technically, is not a lie.
He studies me. “It’s a beautiful night,” he says, pivoting away from whatever missile was delivered via that phone call. “How about a walk in your favorite part of Central Park—Bethesda Terrace.”
Air loosens in my lungs. Snow lightly falling, quiet arches, the angel fountain… it sounds like exactly the pocket of peace I need to confess life-changing secrets. I manage a smile. “I’d love that.”
I step forward and his hand finds the small of my back, grounding, guiding. The envelope pulses with warmth, waiting for its moment. Soon, beneath the angel statue, with snow in our hair and no walls to echo fear, I’ll tell him everything.
Snow hushes Central Park the way thick curtains mute a theater. Vlad’s driver lets us off on 72nd, and we walk in near-silence through the Mall, our footsteps muffled in fresh powder. Pinpoints of light from the lanterns touch the branches, and the holiday crowds have funneled south toward Times Square, leaving the spot ours alone.
Bethesda’s sandstone arches glisten as if brushed with sugar. I inhale the chilly air in an attempt to steady myself for words that keep fluttering away the moment I try to net them. The folder burns a steady warmth in my hand.
Tell him. Now.
We stop beneath the tiled ceiling—mosaic stars caught in the lamplight overhead. The fountain murmurs beyond the stairs, its angel dusted white. Vlad studies the statue, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, the clean winter light sharpening every angle of his face, making him appear ethereal.
“Frost feathers on her wings,” he says, as though we’re just two tourists admiring the architecture. The calm in his voice would be comforting if I didn’t feel every nerve in my body sparking.
“Vlad.” My voice is shaky at first before finding traction. “I need to show you something.”
His attention snaps to me, instantly assessing as if he were scanning a kill zone. I reach into the folder and pull out the envelope, pressing it into his gloved hand before I lose courage. He opens the flap and extracts the sonogram. Under the terrace lamps the glossy print glows silver-gray, a tiny white crescent at the center, heartbeat captured mid-flutter.
He stills, staring at the image.
