I heard it the same time he did. The sound of the gun clicking. I wasn’t sure who it was—someone my father sent or someone else with a grudge against Roman.
But when he sent me out to meet Leo and tell him that Igor had escaped, I realized it was the man my father promised me to. The person Nico said I would marry after they killed Roman.
The man who tried to kill Roman once and failed. I stopped it the first time, and I wasn’t about to let him finish the job.
“Isabella?” Roman rushes to my side while I stare at the body on the ground, feeling nothing. He gently takes the gun from my hand and pulls me into his arms, his warmth barely penetrating the numbness that fills me.
Leo holds the car door open, and Roman ushers me into the back seat, sliding in after me. The door closes, and Leo steps into the passenger seat, with Sergei taking the wheel.
The ride back home is silent, but I can feel Roman’s anger radiating through the air, making it thick. I’m not sure if he’s angry at me for taking a risk, but I know if I had the chance to do it again, I would.
Without hesitation.
When we get into the living room, he turns to Leo and Sergei and says, “Give us a moment.”
“I’ll head back to the scene,” Leo says. “The cops will want a statement, and it’s best they don’t come here to get it. I’ll take Sergei with me.”
Once they’re gone, Roman breaks the silence with something I don’t expect.
“I didn’t know you could shoot like that.”
I blink, stunned. “What?”
“Igor,” he says, stepping closer. “You didn’t flinch. Not even when he hit the ground. Most people would’ve frozen up. Dropped the gun. Panicked. You just…stood there. Ready for the next move.”
That’s it? I wasn’t expecting praise—not for pulling the trigger—but the warmth that spreads through me at his words is undeniable.
“Where did you get the gun?” he asks next.
“Leo,” I say, a small, wry smile tugging at my lips. “Told them I needed privacy. Found it in the glove box. He had no idea it was gone.”
Roman drags a hand down his face, then shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “Heavens,” he mutters. “What the hell do I do with you?”
“I saved your life,” I remind him, lifting my chin.
His eyes darken. That calm in his voice disappears. “And you nearly lost yours.”
There it is.
“You were reckless, Isabella,” he says quietly, but there’s nothing soft about it. The quiet is restraint. “I gave Leo instructions to get you out. Instead, you stole a gun. You went looking for danger—with my child inside you.”
My mouth opens, and I force the words out before I can second-guess myself. “How exactly was that reckless?” I challenge. “It was one man. Just one.”
His eyes narrow, and for a second, I can see the war inside him between pride and fury. Between wanting to pull me close and wanting to shake sense into me.
“You don’t get to be this casual with your life anymore,” he says. “Not when it belongs to me. And not when it carries something more.”
Belongs to him? I fold my arms, putting some distance between us because I know what his presence does to my rational thinking.
“I could’ve sworn that while we were in the hospital, you said you couldn’t make me do anything. And now I’m supposed to do everything you say because I’m your wife?” I shake my head, and the quiet laugh that follows carries no humor. “You contradict yourself every time, Roman Volkov.”
“Do you want to die, Isabella?” he asks.
I purse my lips for a moment, assessing his question. “You’re assuming I can’t hold my own. I can, Roman. I haven’t become an invalid just because I got knocked up. You can’t just take everything I’ve been through and sum it up like that.”
He’ll be no better than my father.
“Fine,” he exhales. “I won’t tell you that you did wrong by killing Igor. But I need you to trust me from now on. Trust me, I value your life more than anything.”
I do believe him. I saw the fear in his eyes, for a moment, when I ran out of the car toward him. I could hear it in his voice too—the desperation that rang in the air.
“I trust you,” I whisper. “As long as you trust me too.”
His lips peel back in a short laugh. “You’re something, Isabella. Your father was a fool for not seeing that. If he knew better, he wouldn’t have promised his company to some other idiot.”
Wait. “What?” My eyes widen in surprise. Or shock. I’m not sure which. I already know that Marco Ricci is a selfish, narcissistic man who was planning to use his only child as a bargaining tool, but…this?
“You said he promised it to someone else,” I repeat as my pulse thunders. “What did you mean by that? Did my father plan to give away everything I worked for?”
Roman sighs. “We both know he’s a bastard. Besides, nobody would take it at this point. Doing so would be aligning with a coward and becoming an enemy of the Volkov brotherhood.” His voice drops to an unforgiving depth. “They wouldn’t dare.”
I know.
I know what he’s trying to say, but my head is full of noise that I can’t escape. It seems like the more I discover about my father, the more despicable he turns out to be.
But this time, I can’t help but feel foolish. I should’ve known. Somehow, somewhere, I must’ve seen the signs and chose to ignore them for the sake of duty and responsibility.
“Don’t you dare.” Roman cups my chin, his grip not so gentle as he forces me to look at him. “You’re not going to beat yourself down because of a man like that,” he grunts. “He might’ve been your father, but everyone knows how fickle blood can be.”
“Your father didn’t sell you off, did he?” I question, my voice wavering. “He didn’t promise you one thing and then blindside you for his own gain.”
His eyes soften as his thumb caresses my chin. “That’s because I knew before I could even speak what my role was in life. You wanted something else, Isabella. And he knew it. I never had other plans. You did. It shouldn’t have been taken from you if he had no plans of honoring his promise.”
I hate my father.
I was indifferent before, but now I hate him. God—I do, with every fiber of my being. A tear rolls down my cheek, and Roman wipes it away. Another tear follows, and no matter how much I fight them back, they refuse to stop.
Roman gathers me into his arms, offering his shoulder as support. “You can let go,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. “It’s alright, my love. It’s alright.”
For the second time tonight, I cling to him like a lifeline, holding on tight until it doesn’t feel like my heart is about to burst.
“You look radiant this morning, Mrs. Volkov,” Polina greets as I walk down the stairs the next morning, smiling.
It escapes my gaze at first, and then I realize. “You’re smiling!” I point out as I make the rest of the stairs in a quick run. “I saw you smile, Polina!”
She stops and turns, all evidence of the smile tucked into her usual demeanor. “I don’t think I did, Mrs. Volkov. But if it makes you happy to think so, I’m glad.”
I tsk. “You’re hiding it. I know what I saw.”
Polina shrugs. “Mr. Volkov is waiting for you in the dining area. I believe he wants to have breakfast with you. Although…” She purses her lips. “I’d say it’s more lunch since it’s almost two pm. But he’s been at home all day—”
“I get it.” I wave, cutting her off. “I get your point. I will eat.”
The smile flickers again. “That would be good. I’ll get going now.”
As she walks off, her arms neatly folded in front of her, I yawn, stretching out my arms. I had no idea I slept for that long, but after days without sleep, I’d say I deserved it.
Memories of last night trickle back to my mind as I head for the dining room, and warmth blossoms in my cheeks as I remember Roman kissing me.
That was all we did, even though we slept in the same bed—until I dozed off—but it felt like the sweetest thing ever.
“Sweetest thing ever?” I echo, surprised at my thoughts. When did that become a thing?
I’ve thought of Roman as gentle, tender, oddly funny sometimes, but never sweet. And yet, it seems like the only word fit to describe how he held me in his arms, my back against his chest. It’s the first night we’ve slept together without having sex.
“Isabella.” He stands up as I walk in, circling the table to hold out a chair. Huh. “Sit.” I do, and he guides it closer to the table.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” I say, watching him as he returns to his seat.
He nods. “Yeah, I was. But I wanted to show you something first.”
I tilt my head, temporarily forgetting the food in front of me—even though it smells amazing. “Show me something?”
“Yes.” He gestures to the plate. “Eat first. Then we’ll leave.”
Clearly, the man has never heard of anticipation anxiety. “Do you know how annoying that is?” I mutter. “I’m not a horse.”
Roman’s eyes narrow, faint amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why would you be a horse?”
I fold my arms and lean back. “Because you dangled something in front of me and told me to do something else first. It’s like waving a carrot in front of a horse and saying, ‘Win the race, and maybe I’ll let you nibble.’”
He chuckles under his breath. “You’ve got quite the imagination.”
“And you’ve got terrible timing,” I shoot back, though my lips twitch despite myself.
“You need to eat first,” he says, stern yet gentle. I roll my eyes, but I oblige.
A yacht.
When he said he wanted to show me something, I thought maybe it was tucked away somewhere in the house. A room I hadn’t seen, some rare collectibles, or perhaps news.
Then he said we were leaving the house, and I thought about shopping—for designer bags and shoes.
I didn’t think I’d end up on a private dock, staring at a sleek, multi-deck superyacht gliding gently in the water like it owns the sea.
“That’s…huge,” I manage, eyes wide, lips parted in awe. The thing looks like it belongs in a movie. Or maybe a villain’s fortress.
Roman slips his fingers through mine. “A beauty, isn’t she?” he says quietly, like he’s talking about a lover, but when I turn, he’s staring at me. He smiles and points with his other hand. “I bought her years ago. Thought I’d use her more, but I’m not much of a sea man. She’s just been waiting here.” He tugs my hand gently, eyes glinting. “Come. I’ll show you.”
We walk down the dock and climb onto the deck, my sandals clicking against the wood as I take it all in. Every line is pristine. Polished chrome blends with white leather and dark wood.
It’s the kind of luxury that takes your breath away, and not in a flashy way.
“Roman,” I murmur, glancing at him as he leads me across the deck. “This thing is ridiculous.”
He smirks. “Good ridiculous or bad ridiculous?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He laughs. “That’s good because it’ll give me enough time to convince you that it’s the good kind so you can name her.”
I lift an eyebrow as I look at him. “You want me to give your yacht a name? That’s something the owner would do, right?”
“She’s yours as much as she’s mine,” he replies smoothly.
My lips part, but I don’t say anything—not because I don’t have thoughts, but because I do. Too many. About how easily he says yours and how the ground under me seems to tilt a little every time he does.
And how I feel like the ground might give way soon enough and plunge me into a place where I can’t deny what I feel any longer.
Where I’ll be forced to confront the truth that I’m falling for Roman Volkov.
Falling in love.
“For now,” he continues, lacing his fingers through mine again, “come.”
He leads me toward the yacht’s stern, his steps quiet but sure. We pass a glass-encased lounge and a sleek outdoor bar, and finally, he guides me up a short flight of steps to the upper deck. The breeze is stronger here, rolling off the ocean in soft, salt-laced gusts.
At the very edge is a cushioned seating nook built into the curve of the deck, designed to face nothing but sky and water.
Roman gestures to it. “Sit. You’ll like it.”
I lower myself onto the seat, sinking into the comfort as the wind tousles my hair. The sea stretches endlessly in front of me with shades of other colors mixed into the vibrant blue.
“How does it feel?” he asks.
I nod, lifting my gaze to his. “Good.” He continues staring, and I get the feeling that there’s something else. “Is there something you want to say?”
He shakes his head. “No. Not really. I wasn’t sure you’d like it up here, but I read somewhere that some pregnant women like the sound of the sea and find the breeze relaxing.”
“You—” My lips tug into a smile as he glances away like he’s suddenly fascinated by the view. “You were doing research for me? When? I only told you about the baby two days ago.”
Roman gives a slight shrug like it’s nothing, and I burst out laughing. His head turns, brows slightly drawn like he’s trying to decide whether I’m amused or losing my mind.
“I’m sorry.” I wave my hands. “It’s just…funny. When I found out I was pregnant, all I could think about was how the very thing I didn’t want to happen had happened. I couldn’t stop thinking about how you got exactly what you wanted—me and my baby.”
His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I never thought you’d be the kind of man to end up on the internet,” I add, grinning, “looking up ways to make me feel better.”
He clicks his tongue. “Anyone hearing you might think I’m the worst person you’ve ever come across.”
“That used to be true,” I say, watching him carefully. “But I’m starting to think—”
That you love me.
The thought hits me so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs. It’s not possible, is it? I could see us becoming cordial, but love? It sounds far-fetched, but everything he’s done so far has created dots that are itching to be connected.
“Think what?” he asks.
I shake my head abruptly, dismissing the thought. “Nothing. The view is lovely,” I say. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He nods, and silence settles between us, punctuated by the sounds of seagulls and the occasional splash in the sea.
Love, I muse. Would it be so bad if it were true?
