I push my chair back slowly, rising with a calm I don’t feel. “I’m going to grab some more coffee,” I say, careful to keep my tone even.
No one stops me. Not even Yuri. Hell, no one even says a word. But I feel their eyes on me as I walk out—fast.
I don’t even know where I’m going until I bypass the break room entirely and push through the door to the private balcony. The second I step outside, the city greets me in all its steel-and-smog glory. Wind whips my hair across my cheek, the noise of traffic thirty stories below a low, distant hum. I brace both hands on the railing, trying to steady the buzz in my head.
The air is sharp and bracing. It helps but it doesn’t fix anything.
Christian De la Rosa.
Sorbonne girl.
My mother.
And Yuri, just sitting there looking at me.
I replay the conversation in my head. The tone. The tension. None of them sounded like cold-blooded, sociopathic murderers. No one gave off that slippery, post-crime panic vibe. They sounded like problem-solvers.
Like men cleaning up a mess they didn’t create but felt obligated to handle.
Which is worse, really. Because what if they truly believe they’re the good guys? What if, in their twisted world, my parents were collateral damage? Nothing more than an unfortunate loss in a ledger full of blood and favors?
I rest one hand on my belly, the other still clinging to the cool metal railing.
The baby is real, growing. A truth I can’t undo. But Yuri doesn’t know yet. Nobody does. And until I know what really happened to my parents—how deep the Ivanovs are involved—I can’t risk telling him.
He might be the father of my child, but that doesn’t mean I trust him.
Yet for some reason, I want to. And that might be the scariest part of all.
After one last look at the city, I leave the balcony and walk back slower than I left. Each step down the hallway feels measured, deliberate. My pulse has calmed but my mind hasn’t. It’s racing ahead, strategizing.
Just before reaching Yuri’s office, I pause. The wall of glass between the hallway and his suite offers an unobstructed view of what I’m walking into.
Lev is pacing like a bull, his jaw clenched. Alexei leans against the wall casually, his arms crossed. Yuri sits at his desk. Calm and impassive. But I see the rigidity in his spine, the press of his fingers against his temples.
Lev’s voice is muffled through the glass, but as I approach the last sentence is clear: “Keep an eye on everyone.”
They leave as I walk in. Neither Lev nor Alexei gives me a single glance as they barrel past me.
My gaze locks on Yuri’s just before I open the door. I return to my seat silently, opening my laptop again. I try to play it cool, but I know something’s shifted.
He’s watching me. And maybe it’s time I start watching him just as closely.
“Welcome back,” he says. “Shall we begin again?”
CHAPTER 12
ASTRID
The cafeteria at Ivanov Holdings doesn’t feel like a cafeteria.It’s floor-to-ceiling glass, concrete beams softened with matte-black accents and sleek pendant lighting. If someone told me I’d walked into a design museum instead of a workplace lunchroom, I wouldn’t argue. It’s like everything else at the Ivanov building—impressive, cold, and intimidating.
I’m not here to gawk, though. I’m here because if I don’t get something in my stomach soon, I’m going to pass out. Morning sickness is a bullshit term. This baby seems to think nausea is an all-day affair.
I bypass the heavier food options, though the smell of pasta with roasted garlic nearly breaks me. Instead, I go with herbal tea and a muffin—something starchy but safe. Settling into a table near the far corner, I keep my back to the wall, a habit I’ve picked up lately.
I take a sip of the tea and immediately wish I’d added honey. The warmth helps settle my stomach, but the unease remains. It’s not just the baby—though that’s a constant undercurrent now, a low thrum in my bones.
It’s the secret. Nobody here knows I’m pregnant. No one knows why I really took this job, either. I’m hiding everything behind a halfway decent poker face.
