Chapter 1
VERA
I shouldn’t be here.
The thought repeats in my head like a warning I’m choosing to ignore. I stand at the very back of the cemetery, hidden among a cluster of distant mourners and curiosity seekers who probably didn’t even know Alexei Volkov.
The black veil obscures my face, heavy lace hanging from the wide brim of my hat, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough. If anyone recognizes me—if anyone realizes Vincent Ashford’s oldest daughter is here…
I can’t finish the thought or afford to think about what would happen.
But I had to come. I had to say goodbye, even from this distance. Even if Alexei will never know I was here.
The August sun beats down mercilessly, turning the cemetery into an oven. Sweat trickles down my spine beneath the conservative black dress I chose specifically because it wouldn’t stand out.
My throat is dry, my head pounds, and the heavy veil makes it hard to breathe. The air shimmers with heat, making everything look unreal, like I’m watching this scene through water.
Maybe that’s better. Maybe if it doesn’t feel real, my heart won’t shatter completely.
From here, I can see the gravesite and the mahogany casket suspended over the open earth.
The wall of flowers—white roses and lilies, so many flowers, the scent reaches even to the back of the crowd.
The priest in his black robes, prayer book open, his voice a distant murmur I can’t quite hear over the thundering of my own pulse.
And I can see him. Dimitri Volkov.
Alexei’s older brother stands at the graveside like a monument carved from stone.
I’ve only seen him in photographs before—grainy surveillance photos my father kept in his office, distant glimpses at neutral territory meetings I wasn’t supposed to know about.
But none of those prepared me for the reality of him.
He’s massive. That’s the first thing that strikes me. He’s at least six-foot-three, maybe taller, with shoulders so broad, they strain against his well-fitted black suit.
Where Alexei was lean and graceful, with elegant lines and easy smiles, Dimitri is power and barely restrained violence wrapped in expensive fabric. His dark hair, almost black, is cut short and severe.
Nothing like Alexei at all.
My boyfriend—my dead boyfriend—had been sunshine and laughter.
Golden-blond hair that fell boyishly over his forehead and bright blue eyes that sparkled when he smiled, which was often.
He was beautiful in an almost delicate way, with fine features and an easy charm that made everyone around him relax.
Dimitri is his opposite in every way. Hard where Alexei was soft.
Dark where Alexei was light. His face could have been carved from granite with harsh lines, sharp angles, and a square jaw that looks like it’s never known how to smile.
High, sharp cheekbones. A straight nose that’s been broken at least once but healed well, judging by the slight crook.
Full lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
And his eyes.
Even from fifty yards away, I can see them.
Cold gray eyes that sweep over the gathered crowd like a predator assessing prey.
When I read in one of my father’s files that they were described as ‘chips of ice’, I thought it was dramatic. Now I understand. Those eyes aren’t just gray—they’re the color of storm clouds, of gunmetal, of something frozen and sharp that could cut right through you.
He scans the mourners slowly, and I hold my breath. Surely, he can’t see me back here. The veil is enough, right?
But when those gray eyes sweep across my section of the crowd, I shiver despite the oppressive heat. It’s like standing in the shadow of something vast and lethal, something that could destroy you without even trying.
My father was right to be afraid of him.
Dimitri doesn’t move or cry. He doesn’t show any emotion at all except for the rigid set of his shoulders and the white-knuckled fists at his sides.
He has large hands, and I can see them even from here, along with the tension in them, the barely leashed violence.
He has hands that could kill, and they probably have.
Everything about him radiates danger. Control. Power. And underneath it all, something dark and broken that mirrors the shattered pieces of my own heart.
He loved his brother. I can see it in the way he stands, in the rigid line of his spine, in the storm gathering in those cold eyes. He loved Alexei, and now Alexei is dead, and Dimitri Volkov looks like a man one breath away from burning the entire world down.
My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach and presses against the flat plane through the fabric of my dress. There’s nothing to feel yet. It’s too early. The baby is barely the size of a grain of rice, but I know. I know it’s there.
It’s been three days since I stood in my bathroom at midnight, grasping the edge of the sink, watching two lines appear on the pregnancy test. Three days since my whole world tilted on its axis.
I can still see it so clearly.
The fluorescent light above the sink buzzing softly. My period was a week late, which wasn’t unusual as stress always threw off my cycle, but something felt different this time. There was a strange heaviness in my breasts and a persistent nausea that had nothing to do with nerves.
I’d bought the test that afternoon, hidden it in my purse like contraband, and waited until everyone in the house was asleep before creeping into my bathroom.
Three minutes. The instructions said three minutes.
I couldn’t look. I couldn’t breathe. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, counting seconds, my heart hammering so hard, I thought I might be sick.
When I finally worked up the courage to check, there it was. Two pink lines. Unmistakable. Undeniable.
Pregnant.
I sat there on the cold bathroom floor, the test clutched in my trembling hands, and felt joy and terror in equal measure. A baby. Alexei’s baby. Our baby.
I’d imagined telling him a thousand different ways.
Over dinner at our secret spot—the little Italian restaurant two towns over where no one would recognize us.
During one of our stolen afternoons, wrapped in his arms in the hotel room we’d started renting.
Quietly, in the dark, his hand on my stomach, both of us marveling at the impossible miracle we’d created.
I had been waiting for the right moment. The perfect moment. He’d been so stressed lately, talking about meetings with his family, wanting to prove himself to Dimitri, and the growing tension between our families. I didn’t want to add to his burden or worry him.
I thought I had time.
There’s the sound of a car horn, and I’m back in the cemetery, back in the suffocating heat, back in the reality where Alexei is dead and I’m carrying his child and the right moment will never come.
Hot tears burn behind my eyes, but I can’t cry. Not here. Not where anyone might see. I bite down hard on my bottom lip, tasting blood, using the sharp pain to ground myself.
The priest is finishing his benediction. I can hear the words now, carried on the hot breeze. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
No. I can’t watch this. I can’t watch them lower Alexei into the ground and bury the man I loved, the father of my child, the future that died with him.
The priest picks up a handful of dirt and holds it over the open grave.
I turn and walk away.
My heels sink into the soft grass with each step, making me stumble, but I don’t care. I just need to get the hell out of here. I need to get away before I break down completely and do something stupid like run to that graveside and scream the truth at everyone gathered there.
I loved him. I loved Alexei Volkov, and he loved me, and we were going to have a baby together, and you killed him. My family killed him.
But I can’t say any of that, because no one knew about us. No one knew that the Volkov baby brother and the Ashford eldest daughter were meeting in secret for eight months. No one knew that we’d fallen in love despite everything our families stood for and the hatred and violence between them.
And now no one ever will.
I make it to my car, a modest Ford Escape, nothing that would draw attention, and lock myself inside. The interior is stifling, the black leather seats hot enough to burn, but I don’t care. I grip the steering wheel with both hands and force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
Don’t cry. Don’t fall apart. Not yet. Get home first.
I start the engine, crank the air conditioning to full blast, and pull out of the cemetery. In my rearview mirror, I catch one last glimpse of the funeral and Dimitri Volkov standing motionless beside his brother’s grave, a dark figure against the summer-bright grass.
Then I turn the corner, and he disappears.
The twenty-minute drive home passes in a blur. I barely remember making the turns or stopping at the lights.
My mind is somewhere else, trapped between the cemetery and that bathroom three days ago, between the past I can’t change and the future I can’t escape.
When I pull into the long driveway of our family estate, my heart stops.
My father is standing there, waiting. His arms are crossed over his chest, fury and fear etched into every line of his face.
Fuck. He knows.
Vincent Ashford is not a tall man, but he carries himself with the weight of someone who’s spent his entire life commanding respect. Dark brown but graying hair, sharp brown eyes, a face lined with years of dealing with the darker side of business.
He runs a legitimate empire—real estate, construction, and investments—but everyone knows the Ashford family has roots that go deeper and darker than public records show.
I’ve never been afraid of my father, not really. He’s stern, yes, and demanding, but he’s also been loving in his own way.
Right now, though? Right now, he fucking terrifies me.