We leave on quiet feet, the room exhaling behind us. In the hall, my legs finally give way. Vlad’s arm comes around me, and I burrow under his good shoulder. We move slowly together. By the time we reach the hospital side entrance, the snow has blanketed the city once again. An Angeloff car is nosed close to the curb. Dmitri holds the door.
“Home,” he says. “Both of you.”
We slide into the back seat. The doors shut, enveloping us within a small cocoon of leather and warmth. I tuck myself against Vlad, head on his uninjured shoulder, fingers intertwined with his. He turns his face into my hair and breathes me in.
Outside, streetlights halo the snowflakes. I close my eyes and let the motion of the car smooth my nerves.
I can’t believe it’s over.
“Tell me again.”
“I love you,” he says into my hair.
“I love you,” I reply into his chest.
The city slides by. Somewhere ahead of us is a nursery we haven’t imagined yet and an argument about baby names and hurried mornings tucked inside a life that will never be normal.
We hold on to each other all the way home.
CHAPTER 42
TERESA
One week later…
The elevator hums around us, mirrors reflecting back two tired but lighter versions of ourselves. We just had our first lunch out since coming home from the hospital—just the two of us at a quiet corner table, a peaceful meal in public.
We discussed the night of the kidnapping, where my head was at, how severely manipulated I was by Trina’s malicious lies. I explained how convincing she and Jack were, how they so confidently spit their venom, convincing me Vlad was the villain. I apologized profusely, my eyes filled with regretful tears. He responded with a simple, “I’ve already forgiven you” as he gently wiped them away.
Vlad stands with one hand in his pocket, the other holding mine.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says.
I arch a brow. “After everything that’s happened, surprises aren’t exactly my favorite thing.”
His mouth twitches in amusement. “This one’s different.”
“Famous last words,” I mutter, squeezing his hand.
The doors slide open to reveal the no longer Zen calm of the penthouse but controlled chaos. A dozen movers in matching polos are hard at work, cardboard boxes stacked knee-high, the sound of packing tape stretching filling the air. One man is wrapping a framed photograph of Vlad’s parents while another dismantles a bookshelf with surgical focus.
I blink. “What’s happening?”
“Surprised?”
“That’s one word,” I manage.
He glances at me, a broad smile on his face. “We’re moving.”
I laugh, a thin, bewildered sound. “Moving?”
“As in finding a home that’sours,” he says simply. His hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere with a yard. Somewhere suitable for a child.”
The movers glide past, efficient as clockwork, turning the penthouse into a landscape of brown cardboard and bubble wrap. I can only stand there, my mind trying to catch up with what I’m seeing.
“You weren’t kidding about the surprise.”
I take a slow lap, pausing at the window, palm to glass, watching the city that made and unmade me in the space of a single holiday season. My reflection looks older, softer, stronger. Braver.
