I stared into my drink. "What if he wakes up in New York and thinks 'shit, bad idea'?"
Lucy snorted so hard wine nearly came out her nose. "Not a chance, you daft cow. That man built his entire empire around keeping you safe and fed. Tattoo with your name, fairy tales when you're falling apart, sandwiches like it's his religion—he's been arse-over-tit for you since day one. This trip's just rotten timing. He'll be back before you can blink, probably with a ring hidden in his suitcase."
I smiled—small, wobbly. "Yeah. Maybe."
We drank. Gossiped proper—comparing notes on positions, how loud the boys get, aftercare habits. Laughed till my ribs hurt and tears ran down my face.
When we finally came up for air, Lucy raised her glass.
"To Alena and Drogo—finally shagging like they were born for it. And to whatever comes next."
I clinked mine against hers.
"To whatever comes next."
But that note still nagged at the back of my mind.
Wait for me please.
I'd wait.
But Christ, I hoped he hurried.
13
DROGO
I was packing a bag when the car arrived.
One suitcase. Black. Nothing flashy. Jeans, shirts, boots. No suits this time. No point pretending I was going for work.
It was 5:47 a.m. London still dark, streets empty, the kind of quiet that felt like the city was holding its breath.
I stood in my bedroom, staring at the half-zipped bag on the bed. The same bed where she'd slept on me two nights ago. Where I'd held her. Where I'd held her after her nightmare, giving her promises I didn't know if I could keep.
My phone was on the nightstand. Screen dark. One unsent message to her.
I love you. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Stay safe.
I didn't send it.
And there was another draft message I would never send.
Keep her safe.
That one to Marcus but damn me if I let another man protect my woman. I was going to NYC to keep her safe—me. No one else. This was my mess. So the text to her, even though I wanted to, it was never sent.
Couldn't risk it. Couldn't give my father more ammunition.
The intercom buzzed—short, sharp, once. Building security.
"Mr. Solberg? Car for you downstairs. Driver says you're expecting him."
I didn't answer. Just grabbed the bag, walked out of the apartment and locked the door behind me.
Elevator down to the private garage. Doors opened to concrete and low light.
Black Mercedes. No markings. Tinted so dark it looked like a void. Pulled up silent in my reserved spot.
