My hands won’t stop shaking.
Three hours of FBI questioning will do that to a girl, I guess. Though to be fair, the pregnancy hormones, constant nausea, and general sense of relentless, overwhelming terror probably aren’t helping matters.
The office is eerily silent when I return, the aftermath of the raid like a crime scene—papers strewn haphazardly across floors, drawers left wrenched open, chairs overturned for no good reason at all. Yellow tape blocks off Vince’s private office, but the rest of the executive floor is accessible.
I glance at my watch: 11:48 P.M. Nobody should be here.
Perfect.
I take a deep breath, scanning for any lingering FBI agents before making my way to the supply closet. I drag out the stepladder, positioning it under the ceiling panel where I stashed Vince’s laptop during the brief moment when agents were distracted arguing over jurisdiction.
Thank God for bureaucratic pissing contests.
The ceiling tile slides away easily, and there it is—the laptop, still wrapped in my scarf. I reach up, wincing at the strain in my shoulders, and carefully pull it down.
Just as my feet touch the ground again, the elevator dings.
My heart stops. My fingers tighten around the laptop.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The doors slide open…
… and Vince steps out.
He looks wrecked—tie gone, hair even more mussed than it was before, five o’clock shadow staining his jaw dark. But his eyes are sharp as ever, immediately locking onto me standing there like an idiot with the stepladder and his laptop clutched to my chest.
For a long moment, we just stare at each other.
“You came back,” he says finally, his voice rough.
“So did you.” I clutch the laptop tighter, suddenly unsure. “I thought you might be… I don’t know, arrested or something.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Not today.”
He approaches slowly, as if afraid I might bolt. To be fair, it’s not an unreasonable concern. I’m still considering it.
“I believe that’s mine,” he says, nodding to the laptop.
“Oh. Right.” I hold it out. “Sorry about the, um, hiding it in my shirt thing. It was the only thing I could think of.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, sending that familiar electric current racing up my arm. “It was quick thinking.”
“Did they find anything? The FBI?”
“No.” He studies me intently. “Thanks to you.”
I shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “I should go. It’s late, and I—”
“Why did you do it?” he interrupts.
“Do what?”
“Protect me.” He places the laptop on a nearby desk, stepping closer. “You could have handed this over. Could have told them everything you know. But you didn’t.”
I swallow hard. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since the moment I shoved that laptop under my shirt.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“I think you do.”
He’s not wrong.
He’s also not getting a straight answer from me.
I look away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. “What happens now?”
“Now?” He sounds almost amused. “Now, I owe you more than I can ever repay.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Vince.”
“I disagree.”
There’s a softness in his voice I’ve never heard before. It makes my chest ache with all the what-ifs that can never be.
“The FBI will be back,” I say, changing the subject. “They had a lot of questions about your relationship with Solovyov, whoever that is.”
“I’m sure they did.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You didn’t tell them anything?”
“No.” I wrap my arms around myself. “Even though maybe I should have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I didn’t.”
The silence between us grows loaded, heavy with all the things we’re not saying. All the truths we’re tiptoeing around.
As always, my mind goes to all the things I should do that I’m not doing. I should leave. Go home, pack a bag, and disappear before I get in any deeper with this man who’s about to marry someone else.
But then—
Oh, God.
The nausea hits without warning, a violent wave that doubles me over.
“Rowan…?” Vince moves toward me, concern flashing across his face.
I hold up a hand, stumbling backwards. “I’m fine, just—”
I don’t finish the sentence because I’m too busy projectile vomiting into a nearby potted plant—a sad ficus that definitely doesn’t deserve this fate.
Strong hands gather my hair back as I heave again. Vince’s hands. His touch gentle but firm on the nape of my neck.
When I’m done, I straighten up, mortified beyond words. “Sorry,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Must’ve been something I ate.”
He’s standing too close, studying my face with those eerily perceptive eyes. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“You’ve been sick for weeks,” he interrupts. “Running to the bathroom every morning. Avoiding coffee. Falling asleep at your desk.”
My blood runs cold. Of course he noticed. Vince notices everything.
“Answer the question, Rowan.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
His throat bobs with a swallow. “Are you pregnant?”
It’s wild to hear it from his mouth. Part of me wants to lie—to deny it, laugh it off, make up some excuse.
But I’m so tired of lies.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His face goes completely blank for a heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Then something morphs in his eyes—a flash of emotion so raw it nearly knocks me backwards.
“I don’t want to— I’m not accusing— I just— Fucking hell. Is it mine?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
“When were you going to tell me?” There’s no accusation in his tone. Just quiet intensity.
“I don’t know.” My eyes sting with unshed tears. “Maybe never. Ideally speaking.”
“Never,” he repeats.
“You’re getting engaged, Vince!” The words burst out of me. “You’re marrying Anastasia. What was I supposed to do? Show up at your wedding with a baby bump and say ‘Congratulations, by the way here’s your bastard’?”
“That’s not—” He stops, takes a breath like he’s barely keeping a lid on a thousand different emotions. His eyes drop to my stomach, still flat beneath my blouse.
Slowly, almost reverently, he reaches out—then stops, his hand hovering inches from my body.
“May I?” he asks.
The gentleness in his voice undoes me. I nod, tears finally spilling over.
His palm settles against my abdomen, warm through the thin fabric of my blouse. It shouldn’t mean anything—there’s nothing to feel yet, just my regular stomach with a cluster of cells the size of a kidney bean hidden inside.
But the look on his face…
In all our twisted history, I’ve never seen Vincent Akopov look so utterly destroyed. So nakedly vulnerable. Like someone reached inside his chest and ripped away every carefully constructed wall.
“A baby,” he says softly, almost to himself.
“I haven’t decided…” I swallow hard. “I mean, I don’t know if I’m going to—”
“You’re keeping it.”
My spine stiffens at his commanding tone. “Excuse me?”
“The baby,” he clarifies, a jagged edge creeping into his voice. “My child. You’re keeping it.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
His eyes lock with mine, suddenly ferocious in a way that makes my breath catch. I brace myself for fury, for the infamous Akopov rage. He opens his mouth, and…
“You’re right.”
I pause.
“But I’m asking you to,” he continues. “Keep our child, Rowan. Please.”
Please. There’s that word again. So strange coming from him.
“Why?” I ask, confused by his reaction. I expected anger. Denial. Cold calculation of how to minimize the scandal. Not this desperate, pleading intensity. “You’re about to marry someone else. Why would you want—”
“Because it’s ours,” he interrupts. “Yours and mine.”
His free hand clamps down on my shivering fingers as he says that. It’s why I believe he means it—you can’t fake the hopeful anguish there.
“I don’t understand,” I admit. “I thought you’d be upset.”
“Upset?” He looks genuinely bewildered. “Why would I be upset?”
“Because it complicates things! It’s not part of your plan. Again, lest I continue to repeat myself, you’re literally about to announce your engagement to another woman!”
He flinches at that, but doesn’t move his hand from my stomach.
“This changes everything,” he murmurs.
“Does it?” I step back, breaking contact with him. “Does it really? Or am I just supposed to follow the same plan you’ve always had for me: staying out of sight, the mother of your illegitimate child who watches from the shadows while you build your perfect life with Anastasia?”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want, Vince? Because I’m confused as hell right now.”
He runs a hand through his hair, agitated in a way I’ve never seen him. “I need to make some calls,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Arrange things.”
“Arrange what things?”
“Security, for one. You can’t stay in that apartment anymore. It’s not safe.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “My apartment is perfectly fine.”
“It’s not,” he insists, already scrolling through contacts. “There’s no doorman, the fire escape is a security nightmare, and the locks are a joke.”
“I’ve lived there for years!”
“You weren’t carrying my child then.” His voice drops into that dangerous register that makes my spine tingle. “Things are different now.”
“Different how?”
“You’re mine to protect now,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Both of you.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the office. “I’m not yours, Vince. I’m not anyone’s.”
He looks up from his phone. “The baby is mine, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are under my protection. That’s non-negotiable.”
There’s that commanding tone again, the one that makes me want to simultaneously slap him and beg him to keep me in his arms.
“I’m not moving,” I say stubbornly.
“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” He’s already turning away, phone to his ear. “Arkady? I need a security detail set up immediately. St. Clair’s apartment.”
“Vince!” I protest, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off.
“Two men minimum,” he continues into the phone. “Around the clock. And locate Dr. Weiss—I need the best obstetrician in the city on standby.”
I stand there, watching this whirlwind of activity, completely baffled by the turn of events. This is not how I expected this to go. Not at all.
When he hangs up, he turns back to me, eyes softening. “You look exhausted. Let me take you home.”
“I can take the subway—”
“Absolutely not.” His voice brooks no argument. “Not in your condition, and not after the FBI raid. My car is waiting downstairs.”
“I’m pregnant, not made of glass!”
“Pregnant with my child after throwing up in a plant and being questioned by federal agents for three hours,” he corrects. “You’re coming with me.”
It’s like arguing with a brick wall—no, scratch that; a brick wall might actually be more flexible. Vincent Akopov has decided I need protection, and apparently, nothing short of an act of God will change his mind.
“Fine,” I concede, too tired to fight anymore. “But this—” I gesture between us. “—whatever this is, we’re not done talking about it.”
“Agreed.” He retrieves his laptop, then guides me toward the elevator, his hand settling in that same possessive spot at the small of my back like he was born to touch me there.
As we ride down, I steal glances at his profile. His jaw is tight, eyes focused ahead, but every few seconds I catch him looking at me—or more specifically, at my stomach.
Like he can’t quite believe it.
It’s confusing as hell.
Why is he suddenly so invested? So protective? So possessive?
And what about Anastasia? The engagement announcement that’s supposed to happen next week?
None of this makes sense.
But as his car glides through the darkened city streets, his hand finding mine across the seat, I decide I’m too exhausted to untangle it all tonight.
Tomorrow, I’ll demand answers. I’ll figure out what this means for us—if there even is an “us.”
Tonight, I just let him drive me home, his eyes checking on me in the rearview mirror every few minutes, as if I might disappear if he looks away too long.
Something has changed between us. I can feel it—thick in the air like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.
I’m just not sure if we’re heading toward shelter or straight into the lightning.
