My penthouse is a black temple that matches my mood as I storm through the front door, rage building with each step. I hurl my keys at the marble countertop, not caring when they skid across the surface and clatter to the floor.
What did she expect? Poetry? Flowers? A goddamn flash mob?
I loosen my tie with a vicious jerk. It’s strangling me and I need it fucking gone.
She doesn’t even understand that I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying to protect her, keep her safe, and if she’s too fucking stubborn to see that, then I’ll do what must be done in order to make her—
“Rough night, son?”
My body goes rigid at the sound of my father’s voice. I turn slowly, hand automatically reaching for the gun that isn’t there.
Andrei Akopov sits in my living room, in my favorite chair, drinking my favorite vodka, looking as comfortable as if he owns the place.
“How did you get in here?”
He swirls the crystal tumbler, ice clinking against glass like a chattering laugh track. “I still have the override codes. Did you forget who paid for this place?”
Of course. How could I forget? The golden handcuffs my father has kept me in since birth.
“What do you want?” I move to the bar and pour a drink of my own. Cut the lime, drop it into the liquor with a plink. My hands are steady despite the storm raging inside me. “It’s late, and I’m not in the mood for one of your lectures.”
“No lecture tonight.” He shifts and readjusts his crossed legs. “Just a conversation about your latest interesting development.”
I freeze with the glass halfway to my lips. “What development?”
He laughs, the sound lacking any warmth. “Please, Vincent. Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. I know about the girl. About her… condition.”
The glass was poised at my lips. I set it down without taking a sip and turn to face him.
“How?”
“I have my sources. Ultimately, though, it’s irrelevant. Here we are. No more secrets.” He waves a hand dismissively.
“What exactly do you want?” I demand again, losing patience with his games.
Andrei rises from the chair to go stand by the window. Manhattan twinkles beneath us, a sea of artificial lights mirroring the stars we can’t see through the city’s smog and filth.
“I want what I’ve always wanted, Vincent. For you to secure your place as my successor. Fuck knows you’ve made it harder than it needed to be.” He turns to face me, his silver hair catching the light. “But now, it seems, you’ve found a way to do that which I hadn’t anticipated.”
I study his face, searching for the trap. “I thought this wasn’t a lecture?”
He sighs. His exhale ghosts the windowpane. “I specifically warned you against her. And yet you persisted.” He takes another sip of his drink. “She’s carrying your child. The next Akopov. My grandchild.”
The way he says it—my grandchild—sends a chill down my spine. As if the baby already belongs to him rather than to Rowan and me.
The way you feel is the same way she felt, you fucking fool, sneers a voice in my head. You called it yours. He calls it his. We’re all trying to claw this unborn child into our own laps, to load it into our own guns like a bullet to be fired.
If this keeps up, that’s exactly what it will be.
It’s what you were made to be, too.
A blunt, disposable object.
“So what?” I say. “What’s the point you’re driving toward?”
“So,” says Andrei, “while she might not be the bride I would have chosen, the fact remains that she’s pregnant with the heir to our empire.” He spreads his hands in a gesture of magnanimity that doesn’t fool me for a second. “Family is everything, Vincent, as I keep telling you. Blood is everything. Your child—regardless of its mother—is Akopov blood.”
I didn’t expect this. Rage, yes. Threats, certainly. But this calm acceptance? This is new territory.
And new from my father always means dangerous.
“You’re saying you approve?”
“I’m saying I’m adaptable.” He smiles as he pivots to regard me head-on. “The inheritance clause requires marriage and an heir. If this girl provides the latter, and you’re willing to marry her to fulfill the former, then who am I to stand in the way of such a convenient arrangement?”
There’s that word again. Convenient. It bothers me more than it should.
“What’s the catch?”
My father looks almost hurt. Almost. “Must there be a catch? Can’t a father simply want his son to fulfill his destiny?”
“Not you,” I say. “There’s always an angle with you.”
He sighs, setting down his empty glass. “The ‘angle,’ as you put it, is simple. The child must be raised as an Akopov. Properly educated in our ways. Our traditions.”
Something protective surges in my chest. “The child will be raised as I see fit.”
“Of course,” he agrees, far too easily to be believed. “You are the father. But certain expectations must be met. The child must understand its heritage. Its responsibilities.”
“Its responsibilities?” I echo. “It will be an infant.”
“Infants grow, Vincent.” He moves closer, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that reminds me too much of myself. “And this particular infant must grow faster than most.”
I recognize the hunger in his voice. It’s the same hunger he instilled in me—the ruthless ambition, the desire for control, the willingness to sacrifice anything and anyone for power.
And suddenly, I’m not sure I want that for my child.
“What about the girl?” my father asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Has she agreed to the marriage?”
I grimace at the memory of her face, streaked with tears, crying at me to Get out, get out, just get the fuck out.
“Not yet,” I admit grudgingly.
“Not yet,” he repeats. “But she will, yes? She understands the opportunity being offered?”
“She’s stubborn.” I turn away, unwilling to let him see the frustration in my face. “She has notions about marriage that don’t align with our traditions.”
“Ah. Love.” He says the word like it’s a disease. “Americans are so sentimental about these things.”
“She rejected my proposal,” I say flatly. “Called it transactional. Unromantic.”
To my surprise, my father laughs—a genuine laugh, something I’ve rarely heard from him. “And is that what you need, Vincent? Romance?”
“What I need,” I snap, “is for her to be reasonable. This marriage is the best solution for everyone involved.”
“Perhaps that’s your problem.” He moves to pour himself another drink, disturbingly comfortable in my space. “Women like to believe they’re special. Chosen. Not just logical solutions.”
I stare at him, unsettled by his insight. Unsettled also by his word choice—the exact same as mine.
“The girl is entitled to her opinions, of course. But make no mistake, Vincent: The clock is still ticking. In the end, we must all do what is required of us.”
“I’m keenly aware of the timeline, Father.”
“Good.” He straightens his jacket, preparing to leave. “Then I suggest you find a way to convince Ms. St. Clair that becoming your wife is in her best interest. By whatever means necessary.”
The implied threat hangs in the air between us. I step closer, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“Let me be clear, Father: Rowan and my child are off-limits to you. Whatever game you’re playing, whatever angle you’re working, it stops at them. Do you understand me?”
Rather than being offended, he looks almost proud. “There’s the son I raised. Protective. Possessive.” He pats my cheek like I’m still a child. “Just remember, you learned everything you know from me. Including how to protect what’s yours.”
With that parting shot, he walks out.
I stay at the window for a long time after he’s left, looking out at the filthy city, wondering just where each of us fit in this vast, dark puzzle sprawled beneath us.
