Hours pass. The legal team must be pounding the walls by now. I can hear the distant hum of tension in the hallway, the shuffle of agents, the raised voices behind closed doors.
Eventually, they walk me out into a holding corridor. Luk is just ahead of me. He turns slightly, meeting my eyes and nods once.
Alexei follows. Calm and unreadable. His shoulders are set like stone.
There are no words. We don’t need them.
But inside my head the storm is gaining speed.
Astrid.
A baby.
If it’s real, if this isn’t one of Spalding’s sleights of hand…
Why hasn’t she told me?
That question loops on a reel, tightening like wire around my chest.
I picture her face—those wide, sharp eyes, the slight tremble she always tries to hide behind her fire. If she really is pregnant, if she’s alone right now, vulnerable and scared…
I exhale through my nose and force myself to stay upright.
No panic. Not yet.
But when I get out of here, I will have answers.
CHAPTER 20
ASTRID
“So unless they magically conjure up actual charges in the next hour, the boys walk by nightfall,” a man’s voice says through the speakerphone on the coffee table. It’s Samir, one of the family lawyers, Elena explained.
Her voice cuts sharp across the grand den. “You’re telling me they dragged them in, paraded them around, made aspectacle—and for what?” Elena paces near the hearth, barefoot. “Public theatre?”
“I’m telling you,” Samir replies, “it’s nothing more than procedural harassment. They’re stalling. Trying to shake the tree.”
“You ever seen a tree punch back?” Elena mutters.
There’s a chuckle on the line. “Frequently. Especially Ivanov ones.”
Elena hangs up a moment later with a clipped, “Keep me posted,” then slumps into a nearby velvet wingback chair.
A ripple of tension makes its way across the room. Maura swirls her wine. Dalia leans back into her corner of the couch. Isabella smirks faintly, her fingers tapping the rim of her glass.
“So,” Isabella says, “what now?”
“Spalding’s not done,” Maura says flatly. “He’s just bruised. He’ll come back meaner.”
“Maybe he’ll try going through one of us next,” Dalia offers dryly. “Or the kids. Or the houseplants.”
I feel the weight of my silence, thick in my throat. I should tell them. About what he said. About the pictures. Aboutme. But it still feels too raw, too dangerous. Saying it out loud would make it real.
I glance at Elena, wondering if she’d explode or go icily quiet. She might do both.
I open my mouth just as the door swings open.
“Ladies,” Tatiana sings. Her coat is draped perfectly, hair and makeup flawless, as usual. “Sorry I’m late.”
