Her beautiful face twists with rage. "How dare you speak to me like that? After everything my father has done for you, after our agreement?—"
"There is no agreement." Roman's words are clipped, precise, each one a blade. "I've told you repeatedly not to come to my office without permission. You're embarrassing yourself."
Daria's composure shatters completely. She starts screaming about disrespect, about her father's alliance, about how Roman is humiliating her in front of his staff. Her voice echoes through the office, shrill and furious, and I watch Roman's security team materialize from the shadows.
"Escort Ms. Borisova out," Roman orders, his voice deadly calm. "And make sure she understands that she's not welcome here again."
The guards move with professional efficiency, but Daria fights them, her designer heels scraping against marble as she hurls threats and insults. "You'll regret this! My father will hear about this! You're nothing without our alliance!"
Her voice fades as they force her into the elevator, but the damage is done. Everyone on the floor witnessed the scene.Roman's expression is carved from stone as he turns back to his office, and I follow, closing the door behind us.
"I'm sorry you had to deal with that," he says, his accent thick with barely controlled anger.
"It's fine." But my hands are shaking again, the confrontation pushing me closer to the edge I've been teetering on for weeks.
Roman moves closer, and I'm acutely aware of his size, his presence, the controlled violence coiled beneath his expensive suit. His gaze drops to my trembling hands, then back to my face.
"Go home, Eva." His voice is softer now, almost gentle. "You need rest."
I want to argue, to insist I'm fine, but I'm so tired. Tired of pretending, tired of holding myself together, and tired of carrying weight that's crushing me. So I just nod and gather my things, feeling his eyes on me the entire time.
The security detail follows me home as always, their black SUVs a constant reminder of the world I've fallen into. When I finally climb the six flights to my apartment, I find Megan waiting with Thai food and wine, her usual sunshine dimmed by worry.
"Don't." I hold up a hand before she can speak. "Please don't ask. I can't… I just can't."
Megan's face crumples slightly, but she nods. She pulls me into a hug, and I let myself lean into her warmth for a moment, this person who's been my anchor, my family. "I won't ask," she whispers against my hair. "But I'm here. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. I'm here."
We eat Pad Thai and watch terrible reality TV, and for a few hours, I pretend my life is normal. That I'm just a regular girl with a regular job, not someone who witnessed murder, not someone trapped in a world of violence and blood.
But when I finally crawl into my narrow bed, exhaustion pulling me under, the nightmares are waiting. Glass shattering. Gunfire. Bodies wrapped in plastic. Roman's cold blue eyes as he killed without hesitation.
I wake before dawn, my stomach churning with familiar nausea. At first, I think it's just stress, just my body's response to everything I've been through. But then I remember my period is three weeks late.
Three weeks.
My hands shake as I dig through my closet, finding the drugstore bag I've been hiding behind my winter coats. The pregnancy test feels impossibly heavy as I carry it to the bathroom, my heart pounding so hard, I can hear it in my ears.
I follow the instructions with mechanical precision, then set the test on the edge of the sink. The box says to wait three minutes, but I can't look. Can't breathe. Can't think about what this means if it's positive.
When I finally force myself to check, two pink lines stare back at me. Clear. Undeniable.
I'm pregnant with Roman Sokolov's baby.
22
ROMAN
Inotice everything. It's how I've survived this long, how I've built an empire from blood and ambition. So when Eva rushes to the bathroom for the third morning in a row, her face pale and her hand pressed to her mouth, I know.
When she returns to her desk and her fingers drift unconsciously to her stomach, a protective gesture she doesn't even realize she's making, I know.
When she brings me my coffee, black with two sugars at precisely 185 degrees, but doesn't pour herself a cup from the pot she's just made, I know.
Eva Markova is pregnant with my child.
The knowledge hits me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I lean back in my chair, my hands gripping the armrests hard enough that my knuckles go white. Something primitive and possessive surges through my chest, a feeling I didn't know existed until this moment. Mine. She's carrying my child. My blood. My heir.
I watch her through the glass wall separating our offices. She's wearing a light green blouse today, and I notice for the first time how it strains slightly across her breasts. They're fuller than they were a month ago. How did I miss that? Her face has a softness to it, a glow that I'd attributed to our night together but now understand is something else entirely.
