The glass of wine in my hand remains untouched, sweat beading along the crystal stem. I stare blankly into the dark liquid, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, until Leo’s voice cuts through the silence.
“Rough night?” he asks, stepping in like he owns the place. He plucks the glass from my hand and takes a casual sip. Setting it on the counter, he cocks his head. “Did you find out what’s wrong with your wife?”
Yes. She’s pregnant. Carrying my child.
I’ve said it a hundred times in my head and still can’t wrap my mind around it.
Leo sighs when I don’t respond, louder this time, irritation creeping into his tone. “I was the one who drove her to the hospital, Roman. I think I deserve an answer, don’t you?”
I reach for the glass again, instinctively, but it’s empty. I blink at it like it betrayed me and glance over at him.
He just shrugs. “I was thirsty. And now I’m asking—is Isabella okay?”
When I said I wanted an heir, it was to spite Marco. It was about control, power, and leverage. I didn’t think I’d get attached to the reality—that it would feel like the world has shifted under my feet, making my chest pound so hard it feels like it might explode.
Leo’s fingers snap in front of my face. “Roman?”
“She’s pregnant,” I finally say.
He blinks. “Who’s—wait. Isabella’s pregnant?” His mouth hangs open for a moment before the shock smooths into something like acceptance, maybe even amusement. “Well, she is your wife. It’s not exactly breaking news.”
He adds, “But I see what you mean. At first, it was just a plan. You were detached, you didn’t care about how it would happen, just that you wanted it to happen. Now…” He gives me a meaningful look. “You feel something for her. You care for Isabella more than you ever thought you would.”
Yes. I do. But I never knew that caring for someone came with this type of fear.
I feel Leo’s hand on my shoulder. “You might not believe me, but I know you’ll be a great dad. You didn’t have the best role model, but Isabella’s had it worse, and I know she will be a good mother too. So, maybe trust yourself more?”
He moves to leave. “I need to get going now—some things I have to check out—but you should spend more time here. With her. It’s not a crime to be in love, Roman Volkov. If anything…” He shoots me a smile by the kitchen door. “I think it looks good on you.”
I never felt the need for my father to be a better dad. He did right when it came to the things he thought mattered—showing me the ropes, teaching me how to read people and deal with difficult situations.
He spent his years training me to take over from him.
But with Isabella, I want things to be different. She makes me yearn for something more—like looking into our baby’s face and seeing her smile.
It’s not a crime to be in love.
It’s not love. No. It’s far from indifference and being tolerant, though.
My fingers reach for the empty glass again, and I sigh when I remember it’s empty. The sound of the tap running as I take it to the sink is the only thing louder than my thoughts.
After returning it, I walk out of the kitchen quietly.
“Polina—” I find the housekeeper in the kitchen the next morning, making breakfast. Isabella is nowhere to be found, though. “Where’s my wife?”
She takes a break from the stove, gesturing vaguely at the door. “She’s getting ready to go to the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
Polina nods. “Yeah.” Then she gives me a look, like I’m supposed to be privy to the information, not her.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I turn, heading for the stairs. When I reach her door, I pause with my fist raised, taking a deep breath before knocking.
“Polina,” Isabella calls out from inside. “I’m really not hungry. I’ll eat when I come back. Thank you!” She sounds chirpy, like she didn’t spend the entire night in thought.
The way I did.
Do I walk away? The door opens before I can decide, and Isabella appears, looking a little frazzled. “I knew it.”
“You knew it?” I echo. Her hand is on the doorknob, and her body’s blocking most of the open space, so I can’t see what’s happening in the room, but it looks like she just ran a marathon.
Isabella nods. “Yeah. Despite what I said, Polina would’ve walked in because she’s very strict with meals. When the door didn’t open and I didn’t hear anything, I knew it was you.”
I hear her words, but I’m too focused on the strands of hair glued to her forehead from sweat…and the outline of her nipples showing through her camisole.
“Roman?”
I blink, refocusing. “Polina said you’re going to the hospital?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “It’s nothing,” she adds as she chews on her bottom lip. “I was told I didn’t have to come back for six more weeks, but—” She exhales, and I catch her hand lifting in worry. “I thought I’d just go and make sure everything’s okay.”
“Okay.”
She chews her lip harder. “Okay.”
I slide my hand out as she closes the door again, catching it before it shuts.
“I’m coming with you.”
She pauses, eyes flicking up in surprise. “You’re coming with me?”
There’s hesitation in her voice, but the soft sigh that escapes her sounds a lot like relief.
“Yes. I am,” I say, my voice low and steady. “You’re my wife, Isabella, and you’re carrying my child. Did you really think I’d let you go alone?”
“It’s not a big deal,” she mumbles, her defenses flimsier now. “It probably won’t even take an hour.”
My hand stays firmly on the door. “Then I’ll sit with you for that hour. Every second, if I have to.”
“It’s really not—”
“Bella.” I step in, close enough to see her lashes flutter. My voice softens, but the weight behind it doesn’t budge. “You’re mine. And we’re doing this together.”
She looks over her shoulder momentarily, then back at me with a sigh. “Can you give me a couple minutes, then? I just need to sort out a few things.”
I shake my head slowly. “I’ll help you sort it.”
Her brows lift. “Roman—”
Before she can finish, I press gently on the door, slipping inside like it was never up for debate. “Let me in, printsessa.”
The room is a mess. Clothes are strewn everywhere—on the bed, across the back of the chair, even on the floor. A suitcase is half-zipped as if she gave up midway through. She turns away and throws her hands up, exasperated.
“I’ve been panicking, okay?” she says, pacing in a small circle. “I know it’s ridiculous—I’m not even showing yet—but I feel like nothing looks the same on me anymore. Like my body already knows, and it’s just…changing without me.”
She gestures wildly toward the pile of clothes. “None of this feels right. I don’t feel right.”
Before she can spiral any further, I cross the room in three strides and cup her face in my hands, forcing her to stop and look at me.
“Hey,” I say, voice low, almost rough with how tightly I’m holding it together. “You’re allowed to panic. But you’re not allowed to talk about yourself that way. Your clothes don’t look right? We’ll throw everything away. We’ll get new clothes. Just tell me what you need.”
Her lips part, the fight leaking out of her slowly. “To breathe,” she whispers. “I think the air thinned out after you left last night. It’s been hard to breathe all morning.”
My thumb presses against her cheekbone, exerting light pressure in a caress. “Feel that?” I murmur. She nods. “Good. Focus on my thumb. Focus on the feeling and breathe.”
She hesitates for a moment, almost panicking again, but I pull her closer with my other arm around her waist. “Breathe, printsessa. Breathe.”
“Why do you still call me princess?” she asks. “I know you were making fun of me initially, probably because you thought I was sheltered, but I think I’ve been through enough to show you that I’m not fragile.”
“It was never about being sheltered,” I say, locking eyes with her.
“Why then?”
“Your eyes,” I whisper roughly as I dip my head, pressing a kiss there. “They were the darkest shade of brown I’d ever seen. When I walked into the cathedral, I could feel them following my every move. Everyone else cowered, but not you.”
My other hand slips under her camisole, stroking her back. “You held your head high even though you were frightened. You weren’t fragile, Bella. You were almost untouchable.”
“If I wasn’t in shock, I would’ve found a gun and probably shot you,” she says with a smile. “I wouldn’t have missed.”
It should anger me—that she still thinks about putting a bullet into my body. Instead, it makes me proud to know that she can hold her own.
My palm rounds her body, settling over her stomach. “Our child will have your defiance.”
“It won’t be useful,” she replies, “unless they meet a man like you.”
My hand falls away. I’m unsure if she said it in jest, but it fills me with a sudden realization. I wouldn’t want my daughter to meet a man like me. I’d want her sheltered from my life, from the men I’ve met and the sons they’ll have.
Fuck.
“What’s wrong?” Isabella asks as I turn away, threading my fingers through my hair. “Roman?”
“I’ll be outside,” I say as I march out of her room, closing the door to put a physical barrier between us.
What the hell am I doing? I should’ve never even thought about putting a baby in her.
Because she deserves better—so much better. A man who brings warmth into her world, not war. Someone who holds her with peace, not power.
But that man isn’t me.
And no matter how many sweet lies I feed her or how many promises fall from my lips, I’ll never be the kind of father I wish I could be. Or the type of husband who gives her the softness she aches for. That kind of life just doesn’t exist for someone like me.
The ride to the hospital is quiet, and I sit in front, keeping my gaze averted from the mirror so I don’t lock gazes with Isabella. I know she’ll see it…the chaos unraveling inside me. And for the first time, I don’t want to see her disappointed.
As we walk through the doors, my phone buzzes. She’s ahead, but she pauses when she hears the sound. “Do you need to take that?”
I shake my head. “No. We’re doing this together. Let’s go.”
She nods, and I step into pace with her, but we barely make it to the nurses’ station when my phone begins to ring. “You know what?” she bites out before I can speak. “I think you should get that. It could be more important.”
I see the pain in her eyes, but ignoring the call won’t erase it. I shouldn’t have abruptly ended the moment in her bedroom and deprived her of an explanation.
I’ll find an excuse.
My phone’s screen flashes with a number I never expected to see. Igor Sokolov.
“Hello, old friend,” he greets.
“What do you want?”
“Relax,” he chuckles. “Can’t a man check in on an ally? We are friends now, aren’t we?”
Never.
I cut through the pleasantries. “Do you know where Marco is?”
There’s a pause. I hear a faint rustle on his end like he’s leaning back, savoring the moment. “Hmm. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Or maybe I’ve got a lead so solid, you’ll want to kiss my damn feet when you find him. But I’m not in the business of giving away gifts, Roman, like I know you’ll never give me a handout. So I’m thinking we make a trade.”
My gaze flicks ahead, and I see Isabella’s silhouette disappear into a corner.
I’ll catch up.
My voice hardens. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Isabella Ricci.”
For a moment, it’s as if I didn’t hear correctly. As if the words didn’t register—because surely, Igor didn’t just say that. The last time we met, I made it crystal clear that Isabella isn’t a bargaining chip. That she belongs to me. I know I should’ve left a permanent reminder.
“I’m going to assume you just misspoke,” I say quietly, dangerously. “Because if you didn’t—”
“I didn’t,” Igor cuts in, smooth as ever. “I know she’s pregnant, Roman. And I know the child is yours. Which only makes her worth more to me. Come on now,” he drawls. “Which do you want more? The woman or Marco? You can get some other woman to give you a child. I doubt the daughter of a runaway coward would win you any favors.”
My teeth grind hard as my blood roars in my ears. If he said these words in front of me, I would slit his throat from ear to ear.
“Stay away from Isabella,” I warn. “If you come anywhere close to her, you’ll be lucky if I let you go with half a life.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, and I’m reaching for the end call button when I hear him whisper, “Too late.”
What the fuck did he just say?
“I’m here,” he says. “At the hospital. You didn’t think I would sit back and let you call the shots, did you? I already figured you were going to say no, so I decided to take her myself.”
Isabella! The phone falls to the ground as I break into a run, pushing past people as I scan the hospital corners frantically. I left her alone. I shouldn’t have answered the call.
Fuck. I drag my fingers through my hair and over my face, cursing under my breath. The hospital is too large to cover the first floor alone when she might’ve entered the elevator.
I need backup. I reach for my phone blindly before remembering I dropped it.
God. I need something. Anything. After running back to grab my phone, I step in front of a doctor. “My wife,” I say. “My wife walked into this hospital. She’s pregnant, and she needs to see a doctor. What floor?”
“Your wife?” he repeats with a frown. “Why don’t you come with me first? I’m sure we can—”
“No,” I snap, slapping his hand off as it reaches for my arm. “I need to find my wife, and you’re going to give me an answer, or I swear I’ll burn this hospital to the ground.”
His eyes widen in alarm and I catch them dart in the direction of a nurse passing by.
“Don’t,” I say, barely keeping my voice calm. “Don’t do that. You might think I’m someone suspicious, but I promise you that if anything happens to my wife, you’ll regret not pointing me in the right direction for as long as you breathe.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “The second floor. The department is on the second floor.”
“Good.” I nod, already moving. I take off down the corridor, my footsteps echoing. The elevator doors begin to slide shut just as I reach them—I shove my hand between them, barely catching the edge. They jolt open again.
I punch the button for the second floor, chest heaving, pulse pounding in my ears. When the doors slide open, I enter a waiting room thick with the smell of antiseptic and soft murmurs. Dozens of women, some visibly pregnant, some holding clipboards, glance up. But not her. No sign of Isabella.
Then I see it—a door halfway down the hall, marked on the frosted glass with “Obstetrics & Gynecology—Exam 3.”
My hand closes around the handle, and I shove it open without knocking.
She’s there. Sitting on the exam table, back rigid, hands curled around the edge of the paper sheet. Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide.
The doctor looks up, startled. “Who are you?”
She’s safe. She’s safe. The words ring repeatedly in my head, echoing over the sound of my heart pounding and my choppy breathing.
“Who are—
“He’s my husband,” Isabella responds. “My husband.”
The doctor clears her throat. “Oh. Okay. I wasn’t aware we were expecting you, Mr. Volkov. You look…well, you can have a seat while we conduct the exam.”
“What happened to you?” Isabella asks as we walk out of the office. I remain close by her side, scanning the area. While we were still in the exam room, Leo messaged me that he’d arrived, alongside Sergei.
They’ve searched the entire hospital perimeter without any sign of Igor, but I’m not about to let down my guard—even if it turns out that he was bluffing. Once I’m sure she’s safe at home, I’ll pay him a visit. And have a casket, or better yet, a cremation service, ready beforehand.
“Roman?” Isabella taps my arm. I jolt, not caught off guard but tense. “Did something happen?”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to worry about it.”
“But I do,” she argues. “It was the phone call, wasn’t it? My father? Did he reach out to you?”
“No,” I say tightly, my muscles still tense and my eyes on alert as we step out of the elevator onto the busy ground floor of the building. “It’s something I can handle. Don’t worry.”
She sighs. “Sure. It’s not like my contribution ever mattered anyway. I’m still Marco Ricci’s daughter to you, and you’ve got what you—”
I swing on her so fast the words die on her tongue. “Don’t.” The word feels like sandpaper on my lips. “Don’t you dare cheapen yourself, Isabella. You’re not just his daughter. I made that clear the second I made you my wife.”
“So I’m just your wife, then?” she retorts. “If you think that makes it any better, then the answer is no.”
Not just my wife. Mine. God—mine, in the way that I’ve become hers. But I understand what she means. “I doubt anyone could lay claim on you, printsessa,” I say with a small smile. “You’re the most stubborn, strong-willed person I’ve ever met. I’m barely holding on to you at this point.”
Her mouth twitches in a smile, and she tries to conceal it and fails. “You’ve gotten better at being coy, Roman Volkov. I don’t know whether to be impressed or wary.”
I take her hand in mine, holding it securely. “Let’s go home.”
As we walk closer to the doors, my phone vibrates. I can guess that it’s a text from Leo, but I ignore it. I made that mistake the first time—putting something else in front of my wife.
Not anymore.
We’re only a few steps from the exit, and I see Leo crossing the drop-off area. Then, we hear the sound of sirens and stretchers being rolled in. I pull Isabella to the side, tucking her close and out of the way. Doctors rush to the scene, and everything descends into rushed chaos.
“Sometimes I think I’ll get a call, and that’ll be you,” she whispers beside me as instructions are shouted and nurses hurry in all directions.
I turn, and her eyes are sad, brimming with fear.
“Isabella, I—”
The sound of a gun clicking, faint but distinct, makes my blood run cold. “Isabella,” I whisper, reaching subtly into my waistband for my weapon. “I need you to leave. Okay? Walk out of the doors without turning around.”
“Wh—”
“No.” I shake my head as she tries to turn to assess the danger I’ve already marked. “Just go. Tell Leo I said Igor slipped through. Tell him to take you home. Sergei will know what to do.”
Her bottom lip trembles as she protests quietly, but I squeeze her hand firmly, my composure steady. “Go. Iyubov moya.”
She nods, and I let her go, watching as she takes tentative steps ahead. I keep my eyes trained, looking for any potential threats around her. I don’t breathe, not until she gets out. Then I turn and tuck into a corner with the chaos as cover.
I see Igor.
Bastard. He grins. I wait for his move while my hand remains nestled on my gun—half concealed. He tucks his gun away and walks toward me.
“How did you know?” he asks.
“You just signed your death warrant, Igor Smirnov,” I growl.
He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. You’re not going to shoot me in a hospital, are you? Meanwhile, I have people outside who, on my command, are ready to kill your wife and your loyal dog.”
Isabella. Leo.
Fuck. Fuck! He was a diversion.
“Just give me the woman, Roman. And I’ll let him go. Maybe I’ll even give you your child after she gives birth. Who knows?”
“You’re a dead man, Igor,” I repeat as my jaw grinds so hard it almost turns to dust, and my fist curls till my knuckles turn white.
Igor clicks his tongue. “Not when I have the upper hand.” He looks at his watch. “You have a minute to decide, Roman. Or they all go boom.”
I could shoot him.
At this close range, I could put a bullet between his eyes without hesitation. But I don’t know what orders he has—and I could be putting the lives of innocents in danger.
So, I do the only thing that comes to mind. I turn and run through the doors that swing wildly into the parking lot. Leo is standing by the car, but Isabella’s nowhere to be found.
“Leo!” I yell. “Where’s Isabella?!”
He starts to speak when I hear the sound of a gun safety going off. I spin, my gun in my hand, but before I can fire, another gun goes off. Igor falls to the ground with a thud. And behind him—
Isabella.
Holding a gun.
