CHAPTER 30
THE HIDDEN PULSE
POV: IVY
The smell of turpentine used to be my comfort.
It was the scent of creation, of escape, of the hours I stole for myself before Silas Vane walked into my life and burned the world down. It smelled like freedom.
Today, it smells like rot.
I stand in the center of my studio—the glass-walled sanctuary suspended above Central Park—and clutch the edge of the drafting table. My knuckles are white. The morning sun pours in, blindingly bright, heating the air until it feels thick and soupy.
I swallow hard, fighting the wave of nausea rolling through my stomach.
Don't throw up.
If I throw up, Silas will know. He monitors everything. My location. My spending. My heart rate.
I glance down at the platinum band on my ankle. It glints innocently in the sunlight.
85 BPM.
Elevated, but within the "creative exertion" range he accepts. If I vomit, my heart rate will spike. He’ll get an alert. He’ll call. Or worse, he’ll leave his meeting at the new headquarters and come home, tearing through the city like a storm to check on his property.
I breathe in through my nose, counting to ten. One. Two. Three.
The nausea recedes, leaving behind a cold sweat on my forehead and a hollow, gnawing ache in my womb.
It’s been three days.
Three days of waking up with the taste of metal in my mouth. Three days of fatigue that drags at my limbs like wet wool. Three days of forcing myself to eat eggs at breakfast while Silas watches me, his eyes dark and satisfied, unaware that I am fighting the urge to gag with every swallow.
I turn away from the canvas. I can't paint today. The reds look too much like blood. The blacks look too much like the void.
I walk to the floor-to-ceiling window.
The city is spread out below me, a grid of order and chaos. We own it now. The Vane empire has swallowed the Sokolov territories. The gallery opening was a triumph. Detective Kane has vanished into early retirement in Florida, broken and discredited.
We won.
We are untouchable.
So why do I feel like the walls are closing in?
I press my hand against the cool glass. I look at my reflection.
I look the same. The same dark hair, the same pale skin, the same eyes that have seen too much. But there is something else. A shadow. A secret.
I pull my phone from my pocket. I open the calendar app.
I scroll back.
The night at the loft. The celebration.
Four weeks ago.
I scroll back further.
The night in the bunker. The "survival" sex.
Five weeks ago.
My period is late. Not just a few days. Weeks.
I stare at the screen, the numbers blurring.
"No," I whisper.
It’s impossible. It’s stress. It’s the trauma of killing a man. It’s the adrenaline crash after months of living on the edge of a knife. My body is just regulating itself.
But deep down, in the primal part of my brain that learned to survive Silas Vane, I know.
I remember the way he touched me. The way he filled me. The way he refused to pull out, ever, claiming that he wanted to leave his mark on every part of me.
I want to be the only thing in your world, he said.
I close my eyes.
If I am pregnant...
The thought creates a fissure of terror in my chest so wide I almost fall into it.
Silas is not a father. He is a king. He is a warlord. He is a man who chains his wife to the bed and tracks her heartbeat via satellite. He is possessive to the point of madness. He doesn't share.
Would he want a child?
Or would he see a baby as a rival? A distraction? A threat to his absolute monopoly on my attention?
Or worse... would he love it?
Would he love a child the way he loves me? With cages and trackers and violence? Would he raise our son to be a monster? Would he raise our daughter to be prey?
The panic spikes.
95 BPM.
I need to know. I can't live in this limbo of suspicion. I need proof.
But how?
I can't ask Luca to buy a test; he reports to Silas. I can't order one on ; Silas checks the packages. I can't use my credit card; Silas sees the transaction alerts instantly.
I need cash. And I need a window of time.
I look at the clock. 11:00 AM.
Silas is in a meeting with the zoning board until 1:00 PM.
I run to the bedroom. I go to the safe in the closet—the one he thinks I don't know the combination to. I watched him punch it in three months ago from the reflection in the mirror. 12-05-88. His birthday. Narcissist.
I punch in the code. Beep. Click.
The door swings open.
Stacks of cash. Passports. Guns.
I grab a twenty-dollar bill. Just one. If I take more, he might notice the stack height change. He notices everything.
I shove the bill into my bra. I close the safe.
I change quickly. I take off the paint-stained shirt and put on a pair of jeans and a loose sweater. I pull my hair back.
I grab my purse.
I walk out of the penthouse and into the private elevator.
"Ground floor," I command.
The doors slide shut.
I check my tracker. 100 BPM.
Calm down, Ivy. You’re just going for a walk. You’re allowed to walk.
The concierge smiles at me as I cross the lobby. "Good morning, Mrs. Vane. Heading out?"
"Just to the bodega around the corner," I say, forcing a smile. "I’m craving gummy bears."
"I can send someone, ma'am."
"No!" I say, too quickly. I soften my tone. "No, thank you, James. I need the fresh air. I’ve been cooped up in the studio all morning."
"Of course. Have a nice walk."
I step out onto the street.
The noise of New York hits me. Horns, sirens, voices. It’s grounding. It’s anonymity.
I walk fast.
I turn the corner. There is a CVS two blocks down.
I keep my head down. I keep my breathing steady. Inhale for four. Exhale for four. I have to keep my heart rate under 110. If it hits 120, Silas gets a 'distress' notification.
I reach the pharmacy. The fluorescent lights hum.
I walk to the aisle. Family Planning.
I grab a box. I don't even look at the brand. First Response. Two pack.
I walk to the counter. There is a line. An old woman paying for cat food with pennies. A man buying cigarettes.
Move. Please move.
I check my phone. 11:15 AM.
I tap my foot. My pulse is thumping in my neck.
Finally, it’s my turn.
The cashier, a bored teenager with purple hair, scans the box.
"Eighteen ninety-nine," she pops her gum.
I pull the twenty from my bra. It’s warm. I hand it to her.
"Keep the change," I say. "No receipt."
She shrugs. "Whatever."
I grab the bag. I shove the box into my purse, deep down under my sketchbook and pencils.
I walk out.
I don't go back to the penthouse immediately. That would look suspicious. A five-minute trip? No. I need to buy the cover story.
I go to the bodega next door. I buy a bag of Haribo gummy bears with the change I found in the bottom of my purse.
I walk back to the building.
James opens the door. "Successful mission, Mrs. Vane?"
I hold up the gummy bears. "Mission accomplished."
I get in the elevator.
As the numbers climb—10, 20, 30, PH—the dread settles in my stomach like a stone.
I am holding a grenade in my purse. And I am about to pull the pin.
The bathroom in the master suite is vast. Marble floors, gold fixtures, a bathtub big enough for four people.
I lock the door.
Silas hates locked doors. But I have an excuse. Stomach ache.
I take the box out. I rip the packaging open, my hands shaking so badly I tear the cardboard to shreds.
I read the instructions. Wait three minutes.
I do it.
I set the stick on the marble counter.
I sit on the closed toilet lid.
I wait.
The silence in the bathroom is deafening. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Whoosh. Whoosh.
What if it’s negative?
Relief? Yes. Immense relief. We can go back to being the King and Queen of the underworld. We can travel. I can paint. We can live our twisted, beautiful, dangerous life without complications.
What if it’s positive?
I wrap my arms around myself, rocking slightly.
A baby.
A piece of him. A piece of me.
Created in violence. Born into a cage.
Silas.
He told me once that his father beat him for hesitating. He told me he killed his own father to take the throne. The Vane bloodline is cursed. It is a river of trauma and cruelty.
Does he want to pass that on?
Or will he look at a child and see a weakness? Nikolai used my father against me. Would someone use our child against Silas?
He would lock us up, I realize with a jolt of clarity. If I have a baby, the world gets smaller. He will never let us leave the penthouse. He will build a wall so high we’ll never see the sun.
My timer on the phone buzzes.
Three minutes.
I stand up. My legs feel like lead.
I walk to the counter.
I look down.
Two pink lines.
Stark. Undeniable. Screaming against the white background.
Pregnant.
The air leaves the room. I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white. I stare at the stick as if it’s a venomous snake.
I am carrying Silas Vane’s child.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, hysterical and sharp.
I shot a man. I robbed a cartel. I married a monster. And this... this is the thing that terrifies me.
I hear a sound.
The front door of the penthouse opening.
The heavy thud of the lock engaging.
Silas is home.
"Ivy?"
His voice echoes through the apartment. Deep. Commanding. It vibrates through the floorboards.
Panic explodes in my chest.
130 BPM.
He’s going to know. He’s going to check his phone and see the spike.
I grab the test. I wrap it in toilet paper. I bury it at the bottom of the trash can, underneath a pile of cotton pads and tissues.
I grab the box. I crush it. I shove it deep into the bin.
It’s not enough. He checks the trash. He checks everything.
"Ivy?"
His footsteps are coming closer. He’s crossing the living room. He’s heading for the bedroom.
I flush the toilet. I turn on the tap. I splash cold water on my face.
"In here!" I call out. My voice sounds thin, reedy.
I grab a towel and dry my face. I look in the mirror.
I look pale. My eyes are wide, haunted.
Pull it together. You are an actress. You fooled Kane. You can fool him.
The door handle turns.
Locked.