I turn and walk away.
My heels sink into the soft grass with each step, making me stumble, but I don’t care. I just need to get the hell out of here. I need to get away before I break down completely and do something stupid like run to that graveside and scream the truth at everyone gathered there.
I loved him. I loved Alexei Volkov, and he loved me, and we were going to have a baby together, and you killed him. My family killed him.
But I can’t say any of that, because no one knew about us. No one knew that the Volkov baby brother and the Ashford eldest daughter were meeting in secret for eight months. No one knew that we’d fallen in love despite everything our families stood for and the hatred and violence between them.
And now no one ever will.
I make it to my car, a modest Ford Escape, nothing that would draw attention, and lock myself inside. The interior is stifling, the black leather seats hot enough to burn, but I don’t care. I grip the steering wheel with both hands and force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
Don’t cry. Don’t fall apart. Not yet. Get home first.
I start the engine, crank the air conditioning to full blast, and pull out of the cemetery. In my rearview mirror, I catch one last glimpse of the funeral and Dimitri Volkov standing motionless beside his brother’s grave, a dark figure against the summer-bright grass.
Then I turn the corner, and he disappears.
The twenty-minute drive home passes in a blur. I barely remember making the turns or stopping at the lights.
My mind is somewhere else, trapped between the cemetery and that bathroom three days ago, between the past I can’t change and the future I can’t escape.
When I pull into the long driveway of our family estate, my heart stops.
My father is standing there, waiting. His arms are crossed over his chest, fury and fear etched into every line of his face.
Fuck. He knows.
Vincent Ashford is not a tall man, but he carries himself with the weight of someone who’s spent his entire life commanding respect. Dark brown but graying hair, sharp brown eyes, a face lined with years of dealing with the darker side of business.
He runs a legitimate empire—real estate, construction, and investments—but everyone knows the Ashford family has roots that go deeper and darker than public records show.
I’ve never been afraid of my father, not really. He’s stern, yes, and demanding, but he’s also been loving in his own way.
Right now, though? Right now, he fuckingterrifiesme.
I turn off the engine and sit there for a long moment, my hands still gripping the wheel. Maybe if I just stay in the car and don’t get out, this conversation won’t have to happen.
But he's already walking toward me and pulling open my car door.
Fuck. Goddammit.
“Where the hell were you?”
He’s not yelling, which is even worse.
I consider lying and saying I was at the library or a friend’s house, anywhere but where I actually was, but the veil is still on my head, and I’m wearing all black in the middle of August, and my eyes are red-rimmed from holding back tears.
He already knows. Of course he knows. He’s just waiting for me to say it.
“The funeral,” I whisper, forcing the words out. “I went to the funeral.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move or speak. Then he grabs my arm—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I know I’m not getting away—and pulls me out of the car.
“Get insidenow, Vera.”
He doesn’t let go of my arm until we’re in his study, the heavy oak door shut firmly behind us. Then he releases me and paces to the window, running both hands through his hair in a gesture I’ve never seen from him before. My father doesn’t get flustered or lose his composure.
He lookshorrified, which scares me more than I want to admit.
