"It's the truth." I keep my voice steady, even as my heart threatens to hammer through my sternum. "The other day at my fitting—you were there. Serena had to let out the bodice of my dress. Nadiyah, I'm seven weeks pregnant."
A sound escapes her—something between a gasp and a sob. Raw, wounded, a woman's grief colliding with a mother's horror. "It doesn't matter. It can't matter. That's not what I—"
She doesn't finish the sentence. Her breathing is ragged now, the careful control she's maintained finally cracking. I can't see her face. But I can feel everything. The tremor running through the arm clamped around my torso, the heat of her breath against my hair, the way she's shaking with something that goes beyond rage.
The pregnancy wasn't something she accounted for. Something in Nadiyah—the mother, the woman who carried her own child—has heard those words and can't dismiss them.
But feeling it doesn't mean she can be steered back from the edge.
When Nadiyah speaks, her voice is quiet. Almost gentle. The voice of someone who has already made peace with what comes next.
"I'm sorry." A breath. A whisper. "I can't stop now."
40
NICK
Nadiyah's words hang inthe air between us, each one as sharp and unforgiving as a blade.
I can't stop now. It's too late.
The composure Avery's held through all of this finally fractures. Tears she's been fighting spill down her cheeks and off her trembling chin. No. Goddamn it, this can't really be happening. Not after everything we've already been through.
I've tried money. I've tried threats. I've tried offering my own life in exchange for hers. None of it has moved Nadiyah so much as an inch closer to releasing the woman I love. I stare across that impossible distance at Avery. Beautiful, strong, pregnant with our child. Helpless now, terrorized by the gun at her temple and the six-story drop at her back.
Fuck. I'm out of moves. The realization washes through me like ice water in my veins. Every tool I've ever relied on—money, influence, the ability to bend the world to my will through sheer determination—all of it is worthless here. I might as well be holding a handful of sand.
Suddenly, from somewhere at my back, a female cry sails toward me from the direction of the open stairwell door. It's raw, guttural, torn from somewhere deep. My head snaps in that direction and I see Nadiyah's mother and son emerging onto the rooftop. The old woman's weathered face contorts with horror at the scene before her.
The little boy surges in front of her. "Maman! Maman!" His voice is a hoarse, broken wail, arms straining toward his mother, small hands opening and closing on empty air. "Maman!"
The grandmother is too upset to hold him. Her grip loosens as her attention fixes on her daughter. The boy sees his chance. He twists, squirms, then breaks free.
"Stay back!" The command rips out of me as I lurch into his path to stop him.
This whole situation is a tinderbox on the verge of disaster. I can't risk—won't risk—Nadiyah's terrified son inadvertently detonating the whole goddamned thing.
I pull him back, my hand wrapped around his tiny arm before he can bolt across the rooftop toward his mother. The grandmother's eyes meet mine. I push the child toward her and she rushes forward to receive him, pulling him close.
I shake my head, holding my hand up to make her understand. "Both of you. Stay back."
She nods, her whole body curving around him like a shield.
Nadiyah's reaction is immediate. She shouts something at her mother in Arabic—harsh, rapid-fire syllables. The meaning is clear in her tone, in the wild edge creeping into her voice:Go. Take him away. Don't let him see this.
But the grandmother doesn't move. She stands frozen with the child behind me. Her voice rises to meet her daughter's, words tumbling over each other, and I hear"Allah"more than once. Pleading. Demanding. Praying.
Nadiyah's grip on Avery tightens. The gun shakes in her hand. Not the controlled steadiness from before, but something jagged and unpredictable. This is panic. Her careful plan didn't include witnesses. She wasn't counting on having to carry out her plan while she listens to her son crying for her and her mother quietly weeping and murmuring repeated prayers.
I force myself to think. To analyze. Threats haven't worked. Money hasn't worked. Offering my own life hasn't worked.
But Nadiyah's son, Sami, is here now. Her mother is here. The audience she wanted was me, not them. Not the people who love her.
"Your son is watching, Nadiyah." I keep my voice level, controlled, even though everything inside me is screaming. "Whatever happens next—whatever you do in the next sixty seconds—Sami will carry it for the rest of his life."
Her eyes flick to the boy. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see the fissure open in her resolve before she tears her gaze away. She stares at me, visibly anguished.
It's a struggle to keep my tone level. To not betray the bone-deep fear that's squeezing me like a vise. "Is this how you want Sami to remember his mother? It's not too late to make this right."
