"How long until we see results?"
"Forty-eight hours for the first retractions," the PR specialist says. "We've already had three outlets reach out about settlement negotiations. They know they can't win this fight."
"What about the FBI surveillance?" The question tastes bitter on my tongue.
Cyril speaks from his position near the door, his gray eyes cold. "They got what they wanted. Just not from you."
I go still. "Explain."
"Damian Slovnik." Cyril's voice is flat, emotionless. "The FBI's been building a RICO case against his organization for eighteen months. The surveillance on you was collateral. They weretracking his movements, his associates, his supply chains. You were in the net because of your business relationship."
The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. The timing of the surveillance, the intensity of it. They were never really interested in me or Aria. We were just background noise in a much larger investigation.
"And now?"
"Slovnik took a deal three days ago. Turned informant to avoid spending the rest of his life in federal prison." Cyril's expression doesn't change, but there's satisfaction in his tone. "The FBI has what they need. The surveillance teams have been reassigned. Rubio confirmed it this morning. The other families are seeing the same pullback."
Relief floods through me so intensely, it makes my hands shake. I grip the table harder, refusing to show weakness in front of my team. But beneath the relief is cold fury. Slovnik. That spineless bastard rolled on his entire network to save himself.
"Your two weeks just became unnecessary," Cyril adds.
My voice comes out harder than I intend. "Then we proceed as planned with the media strategy. Discredit the photos, punish the publishers, and flood the narrative with our version until the truth becomes whatever we say it is."
The meeting continues for another hour, my lawyers outlining strategy with the kind of ruthless efficiency that reminds me why I pay them obscene amounts of money. By the time they file out, I'm exhausted but satisfied. This threat is contained. Neutralized. Done.
I find Aria in our bedroom, standing at the window with her hand pressed against the glass. The afternoon light catches in her dark hair, and even from behind, I can see the tension radiating from her body. She's wearing one of my shirts again, the fabric hanging to mid-thigh, and the sight makes heat pool low in my stomach, squeezing my balls.
"Solnyshka," I say softly, not wanting to startle her.
She turns, and the expression on her face makes my chest constrict, fear and hope warring in those dark eyes. "Tell me."
I cross to her in three strides, my hands finding her waist and pulling her against me. She comes willingly, her body fitting against mine like she was designed for this purpose. "It's over. The media threat is contained. The other families are satisfied."
Her breath releases in a rush that might be relief. "How?"
"Forensic evidence proving the photographs were manipulated. Defamation suits against every outlet that published them. Settlements large enough to make the entire industry think twice." My thumb traces circles against her hip through the thin fabric. "By tomorrow, every major outlet will be running retractions."
"And the FBI?"
"They were never really after us." I cup her jaw, tilting her face up to meet my gaze. "The surveillance was about Damian Slovnik. We were just collateral, caught in their net while they built their case against him. The FBI got what they needed, so they're pulling back." My hand slides down to splay possessively across her rounded stomach, and the baby kicks against my palm like it recognizes its father's touch. The sensation makessomething warm bloom in my chest. "We're safe, Aria. Both of us. All three of us."
Her breath releases in a rush that might be relief.
"I was so scared," she whispers, her fingers fisting in my shirt. "Scared we'd never be free of it. That our child would grow up with cameras in their face and strangers dissecting every moment of their life."
"Never." The word comes out rough, absolute. "I'll burn the world before I let that happen."
She rises on her toes and presses her lips to mine, the kiss soft and grateful. I deepen it immediately, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opens for me. She tastes like relief and something sweeter, something that makes my body tighten with need that has nothing to do with strategy or control.
"Nikolai," she breathes against my mouth, and the way she says my name makes heat flood through my veins.
I walk her backward until her legs hit the bed, and she falls onto it with a soft sound that makes my cock throb almost painfully against my jeans. She's so beautiful like this, her dark hair fanned across the pillows, her lips swollen from my kiss, her body soft and willing beneath me.
"I need you," I growl, my hands already working at the buttons of my shirt she's wearing. "Need to feel you alive under me."
"Yes." Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling me down for another kiss. "Please."
I strip the shirt from her body with hands that tremble slightly, revealing the changes pregnancy has brought. Her breasts are fuller, heavier, the nipples darker and more sensitive. The curveof her stomach is pronounced now at five months, and the sight of my child growing inside her makes possessive satisfaction surge through my chest.
