Chapter 19 – Noelle #2
Sasha nods knowingly, her hand brushing mine. “That’s exactly how it should feel. You’ve got this, and we’ve got this.”
Hours pass unnoticed as we eat, watch silly shows, and share stories.
For the first time in so long, I feel grounded, safe, and cared for—like I can breathe again without the weight of fear pressing on me.
And somewhere deep inside, I know that this small day of peace is just the beginning of something bigger.
“Sasha?” I touch her shoulder, my voice tentative.
She turns from the TV with a small frown. “Yes? Are you okay?”
I take a deep breath, heart hammering in my chest. “I…I think I’ve fallen madly in love with Niko.”
Sasha bursts out laughing, and I can’t help but join in, my cheeks heating. “Girl, in case you didn’t know—I know. You are so obvious.”
We laugh together, the sound light and freeing.
I squeeze her hand, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the room and everything to do with the truth finally out in the open.
“I can’t help it,” I admit, my voice almost breathless.
“Everything about him…it’s like I’m finally safe for the first time in my life.
And now…now I think I want him to be the father of my child. ”
Sasha shakes her head, grinning. “Well, he’s a damn lucky man.”
I bite my lip, glancing down at the blanket draped over our legs. “I just…I don’t want to scare him with this pregnancy thing. I want it to be perfect, but I don’t even know how to start.”
Sasha nudges me gently, eyes soft. “You start by trusting him. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s going to be thrilled.”
I nod, but my chest feels tight, tangled with worry and anticipation. She yawns and stretches on the rug. Within minutes, she’s fast asleep.
Once she drifts off, her breathing slow and steady beside me, I slip from the bed. My bare feet make no sound on the cool floor as I wander through the penthouse, drawn to Niko’s office.
The door is unlocked, so I slip in. The room smells of leather, ink, and a faint sharpness that is distinctly him.
I pause at his desk, running my fingers lightly across the smooth surface, my hand lingering on the leather blotter.
There’s a quiet intimacy in being here, in touching the things that are his.
Curiosity pulls me closer to the drawers. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself. I open the top one slowly, finding a neatly stacked set of folders, a leather-bound notebook resting on top. I pick it up, the weight in my hands grounding me even as my heart flutters.
Flipping through it, I see his meticulous handwriting—dates, names, locations, notes on people and operations.
Some of it is mundane, reminders about meetings or security checks, but other notes are sharper, colder, threaded with danger.
I swallow hard, realizing just how much he carries on his shoulders every single day, how much of his life is spent in a world I’m only partially glimpsing.
Closing the notebook gently, I lean back in the chair, letting the quiet of the office envelop me.
My mind wanders, imagining him walking in, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face, holding me like I belong entirely to him.
The thought makes me shiver, and a small, unbidden smile spreads across my lips.
I shake the distracting thoughts, swinging toward his computer.
To my shock, there’s no password. My pulse quickens as I log in.
His desktop is tidy, a few neatly labeled folders scattered across the screen.
I hesitate for a second, fingers hovering over the mouse, heart hammering as if I’m about to trespass into a sacred place.
But I can’t stop myself.
I blink at the folder labeled with my name—Noelle: Background Information. My hand hovers over the mouse, hesitant, almost afraid to click, and yet curiosity wins.
Inside, my breath catches. The files are…thorough. Everything I’ve ever lived through seems to be laid out in neat rows: my parents, my childhood, the chaos I barely survived. Most of it is familiar—things Niko has told me over time, carefully, sparingly. But there’s more, much more.
There are files about my foster homes, detailed accounts of each placement, who looked after me, the little victories and the long, quiet defeats. Notes on my high school friends, the boys I dated, the small moments I thought were mine alone but somehow now seem cataloged for someone else’s eyes.
My chest tightens as I scroll further. There’s my college life, each semester accounted for, my grades, the scholarships I worked so hard for, the nights I stayed up studying, the people I trusted, the ones I didn’t.
And then…my life at the Rusnak clinic. Everything I did there, who I interacted with, the schedules, the patients, even the mistakes and near misses. It’s intimate, exposing, and strange—but somehow not invasive. I can tell it’s meant to understand me, to keep me safe, not to control me.
I lean back in the chair, heart racing. Niko has followed me through my life without me even realizing it, piecing it together carefully, quietly, like a puzzle he wanted to solve just to protect me.
A shiver runs down my spine. It’s unsettling and comforting all at once. He knows me better than anyone—not just my fears, but my patterns, my life’s tiny threads. And somehow, knowing that, I feel…cherished. Truly seen.
I continue scrolling, my curiosity heightening.
I come across shocking pictures that knock the breath from my lungs.
There she is—my mother—surrounded by people I immediately recognize as part of the Rusnak Bratva.
My pulse quickens. My fingers hover over a photo, and I notice a small star marked beside it, a neat note written in Niko’s handwriting: Kirill Seinoff.
A chill ripples through me. My mother, tied to the Bratva…and this Kirill person, a name Demyan mentioned earlier. My chest tightens as I realize the reach of her past, how it threads into my present in ways I never imagined.
I stare at the photo, trying to process it all—the life I thought I left behind, the chaos I believed I’d escaped, the shadow of Anton and his manipulations.
And yet, beneath the shock, beneath the fear, there’s a strange warmth: Niko’s diligence, his obsession with knowing me fully, his silent promise to protect me from everything he can.
My phone buzzes on the desk, cutting through the silence like a knife. I pick it up, stomach twisting, and see the message from the same restricted number that’s been haunting me:
“He won’t come back, but I can help you find out more.”