Chapter 11
LEDGER
Winning back a wife who doesn’t remember you requires strategy.
I’m in my office, staring at the city below, and running through my options. Flowers. Dinner invitations. Grand gestures. All the things normal men do when they’re courting a woman.
But I’m not a normal man. And this isn’t a normal situation.
Savannah is three floors down, probably taking the south stairwell to avoid running into me. She’s been doing that again, ever since we got back from Chicago two days ago. After the kiss on the balcony, after she remembered fragments, she’s pulling back harder than before.
Like remembering scares her more than not knowing.
My phone vibrates so hard it skitters across the table. I grab it before it falls—Silas.
“Talk to me.”
“Dmitri Kozlov’s been quiet. My contacts say he’s planning something, but no one knows what.”
“Keep eyes on him. I want to know every move he makes.”
“Yes, boss. Also, there’s been some chatter about your son. People are asking questions about his routine.”
My hand tightens on the phone. “Who?”
“Don’t know yet. Could be Kozlov’s people or someone else trying to get leverage on you.”
“Double security on Alexi. And tell him to watch his back.”
“Alright, boss.”
I hang up and stare at my phone. Threats to my son. Threats to my wife. This is the cost of the life I’ve built. The empire that looks clean on the surface but is rotting underneath.
And now everyone I care about is a target.
At 11:00 AM, my assistant buzzes me.
“Mr. Volkov, there’s a situation on the fortieth floor with Ms. Castellanos. She needs assistance.”
I’m out of my chair before she finishes the sentence.
I take the elevator down, and when I arrive, I find Savannah standing in the hallway outside the women’s restroom, holding her blazer closed with both hands. Her face is red, embarrassed.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s fine. I just—” She looks around at the people passing by. “Why are you here? This should be no concern of yours.”
“You’re my wife. Of course I’ve asked everyone to keep an eye on you.”
She scoffs. “Possessive much?”
“Just come with me.” I guide her into an empty conference room and close the door. “What happened? Tell me.”
“My shirt ripped. The seam just gave out during the presentation.” She’s mortified. “I can’t go back out there like this. I need to go home and change, but I have another meeting in an hour.”
“What size are you?”
“What?”
“Your size. For clothing.”
“Why does that matter?”
I pull out my phone and text my assistant. “I’m having something delivered. You’ll have it in thirty minutes.”
“Ledger, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” I look at her. “You’re my employee. And my wife. I’m not letting you sit in a conference room for an hour because your shirt ripped.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen the dress.”
Twenty-five minutes later, a garment bag arrives. Inside is a black sheath dress, simple and professional, exactly her size. I have it sent to the conference room where she’s waiting.
When she emerges fifteen minutes later, she looks perfect. The dress fits her like it was made for her.
“This is too much,” she says.
“It’s just a dress.”
She looks like she wants to argue more, but doesn’t. She just nods and walks away, and I watch her go, thinking about how good she looks in something I provided.
Small victories.
I start working late. Not because I have to, but because she does. Savannah stays until 8:00 or 9:00 PM most nights, and I make sure I’m there too.
Sometimes I walk past her office, and she’s so focused she doesn’t notice me. Sometimes I linger in the hallway and watch her through the glass walls, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the way she stretches her neck when she’s tired.
Sometimes she looks up and catches me watching, and the eye contact lasts just long enough to be meaningful before she looks away.
Tonight, I’m in my office at 8:30 PM when I hear the elevator ding. I step into the hallway and see her waiting, briefcase in hand, exhausted.
“Working late again,” I say.
She jumps. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
We step into the elevator together.
“Thank you for the dress,” she says quietly. “I never properly thanked you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It was too expensive.”
“Nothing is too expensive for you.”
The elevator reaches the ground floor, and the moment breaks.
“Good night, Ledger,” she says.
“Good night, Savannah.”
She walks away, and I watch her go, my patience wearing thinner with every step she takes away from me.
My phone rings at 11:00 PM while I’m reviewing contracts.
“Dad,” Alexi says.
His voice sounds wrong.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. Just wanted to check in.”
“Don’t lie to me. What happened?”
“I got jumped. Three guys. I handled it, but I’m a little banged up.”
I grab my keys. “Where are you?”
“My apartment. Dad, seriously, I’m fine—”
“I’m coming over.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m at his door. He opens it. His left eye is swollen, and a cut above his eyebrow is still bleeding. His lip is split, and he’s holding his ribs like they hurt.
“You call this fine?” I push past him into the apartment.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not the point.” I guide him to the couch and go to his bathroom for the first aid kit. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was leaving Elena’s place around nine PM. Three guys came out of nowhere. Started asking questions about the family business. When I wouldn’t answer, they got aggressive.”
I’m cleaning the cut above his eye, and my hands are steady, but inside I’m calculating.
“Did you recognize any of them?”
“No. But one of them had a tattoo. Russian style, on his neck.”
Kozlov.
Of course it’s Kozlov.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Like I said, I fought back. I’m not a kid anymore, Dad. I can handle myself.” He winces as I press antiseptic to the cut. “I got in some good hits. Broke one guy’s nose. They ran when sirens started nearby.”
“You should have called me immediately,” I say.
“I handled it.”
“This time. But if they come at you again—”
“Then I’ll handle it again.” He looks at me, defiant. “I’m not running to you every time something happens. I’m twenty-two years old. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” I finish bandaging the cut. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”
“Yes, it does.” He stands, ignoring the pain. “You taught me to be strong. To handle my own problems. I’m not going to start being weak now just because some Kozlov asshole wants to send a message.”
He’s right. I did teach him that. Taught him to fight, to defend, never to show weakness.
Now it’s coming back to bite me.
“Just be careful,” I say finally. “And if they come at you again, you call me. Immediately.”
“Fine.”
After I leave his apartment, I sit in my car and call Silas. “Find the three men who jumped my son tonight. Russian tattoos. Asking questions about the family.”
“Kozlov’s people?”
“Most likely. Find them. I want to know who sent them and why.”
“What do you want me to do when I find them?”
“Nothing yet. Just locate them.” I start the car. “I’ll handle the rest personally.”
The next day, Savannah is back to avoiding me. Takes the stairs. Works through lunch at her desk. Leaves at 8:00 PM through the side exit, which she thinks I don’t know about.
I watch it all, but my patience is wearing thin.
The kiss in Chicago changed something. She remembers pieces now. The dancing. The proposal. The hotel room. I saw it in her eyes when she pulled away.
She remembers, and it scares her.
Good. Let it scare her. Let it make her uncomfortable. Because comfortable isn’t going to bring her back to me.
I need her rattled. Need her thinking about me the way I think about her. Need her to stop running and face what’s between us.
I tried patience. I tried giving her space. I tried being gentle.
None of it is working. So maybe it’s time to try something else.
I pull up her employee file and check her schedule. She has a late meeting tomorrow in the conference room on my floor. Standard quarterly review that I don’t usually attend.
Tomorrow, I’m attending.
And this time, when she tries to run, I’m not letting her.