Chapter Three
Lauren
I scroll through investment reports, my eyes glazing over numbers that should bring me comfort.
Spreadsheets, risk assessments, market fluctuations—everything in these client portfolios is clean and controlled, the complete opposite of the world I left behind four years ago.
There's something soothing about the predictability of financial data, the way everything adds up to logical conclusions.
No hidden agendas, no deadly secrets lurking beneath polished surfaces.
But today, my mind keeps drifting. Ever since that goddamn black SUV invaded my carefully constructed peace, nothing feels the same. I stare at the numbers on the screen, watching them blur and jumble into meaningless symbols.
I took an extended leave from work after the whole Aslanov nightmare—partly to grieve Nikolai's death, but mostly to focus on my pregnancy.
When Hannah was born, my world narrowed to feedings, diaper changes, sleepless nights, and first smiles.
For that precious first year, I cocooned us both away from everything, building our own little universe where the danger of the outside world couldn't touch us.
A little less than three years ago, I finally felt ready to rejoin the workforce.
Johanssen Holdings offered me a portfolio management position—a significant step down from my Vice President role at my father's company, but I welcomed the demotion.
Here, I could work without Charles Watson's suffocating surveillance, without the constant reminder of how spectacularly I'd destroyed everything he'd built.
My routine became sacred: coffee in hand, eight hours at the office, five days a week, managing investments for clients whose biggest concerns were market volatility and tax implications.
Normal people with normal problems. It felt like redemption, proof that I could build something stable and honest from the wreckage of my past.
Except today, everything feels wrong.
I lift my coffee mug, but the liquid tastes bitter against my tongue. My stomach churns in protest, and I push the cup away, afraid I might actually vomit right here at my desk.
That car has to mean something. The fact that even Ethan—with all his investigative resources—can't trace the plates confirms my worst fears. This isn't paranoia. This is real.
I stand abruptly, interlacing my fingers to stretch my arms above my head, trying to work out the tension that’s taken permanent residence in my shoulders.
I need air, perspective, something to ground me in reality.
Walking to the window, I focus on the familiar rhythm of traffic below, the comforting chaos of a city going about its business.
But then, I see him.
My breath catches in my throat, a strangled gasp that thankfully doesn't carry to my two colleagues hunched over their computers nearby.
A man dressed entirely in black stands on the sidewalk across the street, his face obscured by a dark hoodie.
Everything about his posture screams intentionality—the way he stands perfectly still while everyone else hurries past, the deliberate angle of his head tilted up toward our office building.
Can he see me?
Is he looking for me specifically?
I want to look away, to convince myself this is just another coincidence, another phantom created by my traumatized mind, but something about his silhouette triggers a visceral recognition. He’s the same build as the figure I glimpsed emerging from that SUV—I'm certain of it.
My vision tunnels, the sounds of keyboard clicking and muffled phone conversations fading into white noise. The walls of the office seem to dissolve until there’s nothing but him and me, predator and prey locked in a moment that feels suspended outside of time.
Danger.
The word echoes through my consciousness like a warning bell. After four years of careful invisibility, of building a life so ordinary it wouldn’t register on anyone’s radar, the shadows have found me.
They have found us.
My heart hammers against my ribs as adrenaline floods my system. Without thinking, I grab my jacket and bolt from the office, my movements sharp and urgent. I race down the corridor, jabbing the elevator call button repeatedly as if I could summon it through sheer force of will.
Come on, come on...
But the seconds stretch into eternity.
"Goddammit!"
I abandon the elevator for the emergency stairs, taking them two at a time despite the heels I’m wearing. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I spiral downward, flight after flight, until my head spins and my stomach lurches with each jarring step.
I have to know who he is.
I can’t let some ghost from my past terrorize my daughter.
Halfway down, I nearly collide with Marcus from accounting. His concerned face looms in my peripheral vision as he reaches out to steady me.
"Lauren? Are you okay?"
"I’m fine," I gasp, dodging around him without breaking stride. "Emergency at Hannah’s school."
The lie slips out smoothly—I’ve become disturbingly good at crafting believable deceptions. I catch his confused expression as I continue my descent, knowing this little incident will fuel office gossip for weeks. Let them speculate about my mental state. It’s infinitely preferable to the truth.
I won’t let anyone threaten my daughter.
Not again.
The lobby’s glass doors seem to mock me with their sluggish automated response.
I pace frantically in front of the sensors, probably looking like a woman on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.
The receptionist’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline, but I don’t care.
Let her think I’m unhinged—it’s closer to the truth than she realizes.
Finally, the doors part and I burst onto the sidewalk, sprinting toward the spot where the hooded figure had been standing. My heels click against the concrete as I round the corner, scanning desperately for any trace of him.
Nothing.
The sidewalk stretches empty in both directions, populated only by the usual parade of office workers and tourists. I pivot in a slow circle, my eyes cataloging every parked vehicle within a three-block radius.
No black SUV.
No mysterious watcher.
"Shit." My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave crescents.
Am I losing my mind?
I stand there catching my breath, watching the world continue its oblivious rotation around me.
Commuters stride past, clutching their briefcases and coffee cups, absorbed in the mundane concerns of deadlines and meetings.
This is what I wanted—this beautiful, boring normalcy.
I’d give anything for my biggest worry to be a difficult client or a missed deadline instead of untraceable vehicles and phantom watchers.
Can’t the universe just let me be?
Haven’t we suffered enough?
After one final, futile scan of the area, I force myself to turn back toward the office building.
Last night’s conversation with Ethan has clearly triggered my hypervigilance, transforming every shadow into a potential threat.
But if a professional investigator can’t trace those license plates, I have to accept that this isn’t random.
Someone with serious resources is watching us.
The question that terrifies me most: if this is connected to Aslanov, who can I turn to for help?
Ethan has made his limitations crystal clear—organized crime is "above his pay grade.
" The police would need evidence I don’t have, and even if I could convince them to take me seriously, what could they realistically do against someone like Ronan Aslanov?
With Nikolai gone, that monster has probably consolidated power beyond anything law enforcement could touch.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and I step inside, catching my reflection in the polished steel doors.
Despite the concealer I’d carefully applied this morning, dark circles shadow my eyes like bruises.
The face staring back at me looks haunted, aged beyond my years by guilt and sleepless nights.
This is what grief looks like.
This is what living with blood on your hands does to a person.
Sometimes I can barely stand to meet my own gaze. The weight of responsibility—for Nikolai’s death, for Hannah’s fatherless childhood, for the danger that seems to follow us like a curse—threatens to crush what’s left of my sanity.
I tear my thoughts away as the elevator reaches my floor.
The best I can do now is return to my desk and pretend normalcy while my colleagues whisper about my erratic behavior.
Let them think I’m having a breakdown. It’s still preferable to them discovering the truth—that I’m being hunted by the Russian mafia, and there’s nowhere left to run.
***
I force another piece of roasted carrot into my mouth, the sweetness turning to ash as I studiously avoid eye contact with Timur and Sophia.
Soph practically radiates happiness, her hand finding its way to the gentle curve of her belly with unconscious frequency, even while she eats.
When she thinks no one’s watching, I catch glimpses of the tender looks she exchanges with Timur—two souls completely absorbed in each other’s existence, their love blooming brighter with each passing day.
I’m genuinely thrilled for them, but visiting here sometimes feels like pressing on a bruise. Watching their effortless intimacy, the way they orbit each other like binary stars, reminds me of everything I had and lost. Everything Hannah will never have.
I abandon the carrot and reach over to help Hannah with her dinner, spearing vegetables onto her fork since she’s developed an impressive talent for avoiding anything green.
My appetite has completely vanished.