Many things in my life have changed.
My feelings toward cocktail parties are not one of them.
The awkward small talk, the uncomfortable shoes, the constant fear that I’ll say something idiotic to someone important—it’s a particular kind of hell for a hormonal blimp with legs who’d much rather be home on the couch in sweatpants.
But here I am anyway, almost eight months pregnant and navigating the glittering ballroom of the Plaza Hotel in a shimmering red maternity gown that makes me feel like the Kool-Aid Man grew boobs.
“You’re doing amazing,” Vince murmurs, his hand warm against the small of my back as he guides me toward yet another group of potential investors.
“I’ve smiled so much my face hurts,” I whisper back. “Is that normal?”
“Welcome to my world.” His lips twitch in amusement. “Just thirty more minutes, then we can leave.”
I nod in gratitude. My feet are killing me, and Baby Akopov is going Cobra Kai against my bladder.
But this event matters—it’s the first public showcase of our legitimization efforts, a carefully orchestrated dance to introduce Akopov Industries as a respectable corporate entity to New York’s business elite.
Vince and I have been working toward this for weeks, and I’ll be damned if my swollen ankles are going to ruin it.
“Mr. Akopov,” calls a shiny-headed man in an impeccable suit. “That was quite a presentation on your shipping infrastructure expansion.”
“Thank you, Senator,” Vince replies, seamlessly slipping into his charming businessman persona. “We believe modernizing the eastern seaboard’s shipping capabilities is not just good business—it’s good for America.”
I suppress a smile. The thinly-veiled patriotic angle was my suggestion. Americans love to hear how private enterprise benefits the country, especially when said Americans control federal funding.
As Vince engages the senator in conversation about tax incentives and job creation, I take the opportunity to survey the room.
The event is a success by any measure—nearly two hundred of New York’s most influential people sipping champagne and eagerly discussing partnership opportunities with former Bratva captains who now wear the titles of Vice President and Chief Operating Officer.
If anyone suspects these polished executives were breaking kneecaps six weeks ago, they certainly aren’t showing it.
“I need to visit the ladies’ room,” I whisper to Vince when there’s a break in his conversation.
He nods, though his hand lingers on my hip. “Don’t be long. The mayor’s wife has been looking for an introduction.”
“I’ll hurry,” I promise, already making my way through the crowd.
After taking care of business (pregnancy bladder is no joke), I’m washing my hands when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Moments like this always catch me by surprise. You just go about your life, one day at a time, and then bam, you catch a glimpse from just the right angle and realize how far you’ve come.
The woman staring back at me is almost unrecognizable from the nervous marketing associate who once stumbled into Vince’s office at exactly the wrong moment.
Who is this person?
My hair is professionally styled, my makeup flawless, the crimson dress hugging my pregnant curves in a way that somehow manages to look both elegant and powerful, which is a miracle, given that I’ve basically got a watermelon duct-taped to my belly.
Against all odds, I look like I belong here—like I was born to stand beside Vincent Akopov as he reshapes his empire.
Honestly, it’s a little unnerving.
When I emerge from the restroom, I decide to take the long way back. I need a moment to gather my thoughts before diving back into the social fray.
I’m rounding a corner when a familiar voice stops me cold.
“Well, if it isn’t Rowan St. Clair. Or should I say, Mrs. Akopov now?”
I turn slowly to find Kevin Peterson—my former boss from Marketing—leaning against a pillar with an alarmingly full tumbler of whiskey in hand. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Kevin,” I greet him, keeping my voice pleasant while mental alarm bells start ringing. “I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
“Last-minute addition,” he says, pushing off the pillar to approach me. “The firm I’m with now does a lot of business with city officials. Couldn’t miss the opportunity to see what the infamous Vincent Akopov is up to these days.”
There’s something in his tone that makes the hairs on my neck stand up. Kevin was never particularly kind to me at Akopov Industries—he took credit for my ideas, assigned me the grunt work nobody wanted, and once “accidentally” spilled coffee on my presentation minutes before a client meeting.
But he wasn’t, like, a monster.
This feels different. There’s a nastiness simmering here I don’t remember.
“The shipping expansion is quite impressive,” I say neutrally. “Vincent has a remarkable vision for the company’s future.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does.” Kevin takes a messy glug of his whiskey and wipes the back of his hand across his lips. “Though I have to wonder about the origins of the capital investment. Money like that doesn’t just appear overnight, now, does it?”
My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression carefully blank. “Akopov Industries has been profitable for decades, Kevin. The capital has always been there.”
He chuckles, the sound oily and unpleasant. “Come on, Rowan. We both know what’s really going on. You think that stuff goes unnoticed? The mysterious meetings, the ‘offsite’ appointments that never appeared in the official calendar, the visitors who never signed in at reception…” He inches closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve been doing my own research. Interesting things happen at the docks when Akopov ships come in. Even more interesting things happen to people who ask too many questions.”
Cold dread pools in my stomach, but I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of composure I’ve learned from watching Vince these past months.
“That sounds like speculation, Kevin. Dangerous speculation.” My voice takes on an edge I didn’t know I possessed. “I’d be careful throwing around accusations without evidence.”
“Oh, I have evidence,” he counters with a guffaw. “And I’m meeting with people who’d be very interested in it. Federal types, if you catch my drift.”
My first instinct is panic—to rush back to Vince, to warn him, to run away from this entire situation.
But something deeper, something steelier, takes over instead.
This man is threatening my family. My husband. My child’s future.
I won’t fucking stand for it.
“That’s a fascinating career move,” I remark. I step closer just like he did to me, invading his personal space just enough to make him uncomfortable. “Tell me, does your new firm know about the embezzlement investigation from your previous position? The one where thirty grand mysteriously disappeared from the Harrison account?”
Kevin’s face pales. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I assumed you knew!” I widen my eyes in mock concern. “It was all quietly handled, of course. But those records still exist. I’d imagine the FBI might find them just as interesting as whatever fairy tales you’ve concocted about my husband’s business.”
It’s a complete bluff—I have no idea if Kevin ever embezzled anything. But in my years working under him, I saw enough ethical corner-cutting to know he wasn’t completely clean.
And the way his Adam’s apple bobs nervously tells me I’ve hit close enough to the mark.
“You’re making that up,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Am I?” I give him a sharp-fanged smile. “Would you like to find out? Because while my husband values privacy in his business dealings, he’s extremely thorough when it comes to protecting what’s his.” I rest my hand over my swollen belly. “And make no mistake, Kevin: I am very much his. As is this child. As is everything and everyone under the Akopov name.”
Kevin takes an involuntary step back. “Are you threatening me?”
“Goodness, no!” I laugh softly. “I’m simply having a conversation with a former colleague about the importance of discretion in one’s professional endeavors.” I lean in closer and drape my fingers over his trembling wrist. The whiskey sloshes in his grip. “But if I were threatening you, I’d say that pursuing your current line of inquiry could have unforeseen consequences. For your career. For your reputation.” I pause meaningfully. “And for your continued ability to enjoy free, top-shelf whiskey at elegant events like this one. Unless, of course, you like drinking through a breathing tube.”
The blood drains from his face so rapidly I think he might faint. “I—I think I should rejoin my associates.”
“I think that’s wise,” I agree pleasantly. “And Kevin? Let’s not cross paths again. For your sake.”
He nods jerkily before nearly tripping over himself to get away from me. As I watch him disappear into the crowd, adrenaline surges through my veins.
What the hell did I just do?
Did I just threaten a man? Did I just channel my inner mob wife to protect Vince’s interests?
Most disturbingly, did I just enjoy it?
