The elevator glides upward, smooth and silent. I watch the numbers climb, my mind racing, exhaustion pressing down on me from all sides. I don’t know if I should be relieved or more afraid.
All I know is that when the doors open and he carries my daughter inside, I follow.
Because tonight, I’m too tired to fight. And because despite everything, some part of me believes him when he says we’ll leave tomorrow.
I just don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring.
I glance at Aleksander again, and despite my best intentions, I feel that thrum in my chest again.
He carries Lily through the doorway with an ease that feels practiced, natural. He shifts her weight without waking her, murmurs something soft I can’t quite hear, adjusts the blanketso it doesn’t slip from her shoulder. She sighs in her sleep and curls closer to him like she belongs there.
Like she trusts him.
The sight hits me harder than anything else tonight. Harder than Boston. Harder than the murder. Harder than the way we ran from the airport like we were guilty of something unnamed.
Father and daughter.
The thought flashes through me before I can stop it, sharp and terrifying. My chest tightens, breath catching as if my body knows something my mind refuses to touch.
No.
No way.
He kneels to unlace her shoes, sets them aside neatly, pulls the covers up just enough to keep her warm. He stands there for a moment longer than necessary, watching her sleep.
I turn my back before he can see my face.
This is nothing, I tell myself. He’s good with children. That’s all. Plenty of men are. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
If he ever found out?—
If anyone ever put those pieces together?—
I swallow hard.
No way I can let that happen.
He joins me quietly in the living area, rolling up his sleeves, the tension of the night still in his shoulders. “She’ll sleep,” he says. “Fever’s gone.”
“Thank you,” I manage. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
He nods, then looks at me, really looks, eyes softening. “You should rest too.”
I hesitate, then nod, exhaustion finally winning. As I walk toward the other bedroom, I glance back once more.
He’s standing near the door to hers, just watching. Guarding.
My heart twists again, traitorous and aching.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, pressing a hand to my chest, breathing through the fear, the questions, the dangerous warmth blooming somewhere it has no right to be.
I stand there for a long moment with my back against the door, listening to the quiet hum of the suite, the distant city, my own heartbeat pounding too loud in my ears.
Get it together.
I move slowly, deliberately, like if I’m careful enough I can keep my thoughts from spiraling. I kick off my shoes, wash my face in the bathroom, grip the edge of the sink until the reflection staring back at me looks more like myself again. Tired. Scared. Still standing.
When I step back out, the lights in the living area are dimmed. Aleksander is on the phone, voice low, turned slightly away from me. He doesn’t stop talking when he notices me, just lifts a hand in a quiet acknowledgment, like he knows I need space.
