Chapter 15
ASTRID
The lighting in the executive bathroom is cruel in the way only fluorescent bulbs can be—bright, revealing, probing.
I’m standing in front of the mirror, shirt lifted just enough to see the slight curve of my stomach. I trace it softly with my fingertips.
I’ve never had a perfectly flat belly, and God knows I’ve never cared. But this is different. The difference between soft and expectant. Between bloated and beginning. It’s subtle. Barely there. But I know. And soon, others will too.
How am I going to tell Yuri?
That question has been looping in the back of my mind ever since I saw those two pink lines in Paris. It’s louder now. I press my hand flat over the slight swell and stare at my reflection, searching for a version of myself that might have the answer.
The door creaks open. I drop my shirt hastily, stepping away from the mirror just as two women from the logistics department stroll in, chattering about weekend plans and a new Peruvian place on West Randolph. Neither of them notice me. Good. I’m not in the mood for small talk.
I slip out into the hallway, heels clicking loudly on the polished floors. As I pass Yuri’s office, I instinctively glance toward the glass panels. Dark. Empty. The room is cast in shadow, the blinds half-drawn, desk untouched. He’s been gone all day.
Ivanov Holdings business, or Bratva business?
Not that there’s much of a line between the two. Sometimes I wonder if the spreadsheets I’m working on are more about laundering than ledgers, that if I stare long enough, I’ll find blood in the margins.
I push that thought away. Not today.
Back in my office, I plant myself at the desk and try to disappear into the neat rows of numbers on my screen. Budgets, forecasts, a trailing acquisition in Zurich. Data is comfortingly neutral. Emotionless. It doesn’t kiss your throat or whisper Russian against your skin.
Stop it, I tell myself. But I can’t.
I blink, and suddenly I’m in my apartment, his hand cupping the back of my neck, thumb tracing the corner of my jaw, the memories of last night filling my mind’s eye. His mouth had been urgent, insistent. He kissed me like he was starving.
And this morning, how he'd woken me up with his fingers teasing along my inner thigh, his voice a low rumble against my spine. I hadn’t even been fully awake before I was gasping into the pillow, legs parted, heart thundering as he drove into me like the world was ending.
And what he did with his mouth…
His hair was still damp from the shower as he kissed me goodbye, promising he’d only be out of the office for a few hours.
Liar, I think to myself, but there’s no anger in it. Only longing.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of him. I’ve got work to do. A baby to hide. A past to understand. And a future that’s starting to press against my shirt.
I can still feel his touch, ghosting over my skin like goosebumps.
I let out a sigh that deflates my entire spine.
Who am I kidding? I’m not getting anything done today.
I’ve refreshed the same spreadsheet four times and stared at the blinking cursor for so long it’s starting to look like a word.
There’s nothing urgent in my inbox, no looming deadline I can use as an excuse to stay.
I glance up at the clock. It’s barely two. Maybe I’ll take a walk. Clear my head.
I shut my laptop and gather my things, slipping my coat over my shoulders with a sigh that feels heavier than it should.
Part of me hesitates, hoping I’ll bump into Yuri on the way out. That he’ll round the corner with his unreadable expression and say something low and sexy, the way he always does when no one else is around.
I leave the office and step out into the misty afternoon, the air cool and damp against my cheeks. The sky’s a dull grey, suiting my mood perfectly.
With too much time to sit around and stew, I head to my usual spot—a coffee shop tucked behind the tower, cozy and quiet, with old jazz records playing just loud enough to be charming.
I used to come here for espresso so strong it could kill a man.
Now, it’s decaf tea and oat milk, thanks to the baby.
“Decaf English breakfast,” I tell the barista. “Oat milk. Extra honey.”
I find a seat by the window and sink into it, wrapping my hands around the mug. The heat feels good, anchoring. I take a sip, breathing in the scent of the tea. For a moment, everything stills.
“Astrid.” The sound of my name cuts through the café noise like a knife, and I freeze.
I look up slowly, already aware of who said it. Standing beside my table, wearing a smug expression, is Agent Spalding. No suit today. No badge. Just jeans, a black jacket, and the unmistakable glint of someone who knows something I don’t.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks, already sliding into the chair across from me like this is a lunch date and not an ambush.
I don’t answer right away. My grip tightens on the mug, and my heart starts ticking faster. I set my tea down slowly. “I’d say you just did.”
Agent Spalding smiles. Up close, his face is all angles and ambition, with the kind of grin men wear when they’re used to getting what they want.
He appears completely calm and comfortable.
His hair and face is damp from the drizzle, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Of course not. Sharks need water.
“You’re a hard woman to catch outside the tower,” he says. “I was beginning to think you didn’t take breaks.”
“I don’t,” I respond coolly.
He chuckles, tapping a finger against his coffee cup he obviously ordered earlier. So, this wasn’t chance. He was waiting for me.
“I’ll get to the point,” he says, and the charm slips away. “I know you’ve been digging into what happened to your parents.”
My stomach tightens, but my face is expressionless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on, Astrid. Paris? That little side trip? Thierry and Melanie Devereaux weren’t exactly nobodies. And they didn’t just die.” He leans forward, voice dropping. “They were erased.”
A beat of silence.
“But you already know that don’t you?”
I meet his gaze as steadily as I can manage. “If you have something to say, Agent Spalding, say it. Otherwise, I have somewhere to be.”
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a slim envelope, setting it on the table between us.
“I’m not here to threaten you,” he says, patting it once. “I’m offering you the truth.”
“Truth doesn’t usually come from people like you,” I say, ignoring the envelope.
“It does when it’s important. And it does when the consequences of not knowing the truth puts lives at risk.
” He leans back in the chair, staring at me.
“You’re in deeper than you realize, Astrid.
These people—Yuri, his family—they’re full of secrets.
And you’re what, a month in? Do you really think they’ll ever let you see the full picture? ”
I clench my jaw. He’s not entirely wrong, and that’s what makes it dangerous. He senses it, too—my hesitation. Like a bloodhound catching the scent.
“What exactly are you asking of me?”
He smiles again as if I’ve just stepped onto his side of the board.
“Help me finish what your parents started. They were close to exposing something—financials, ties to the Smirnov family, laundering pipelines. Thierry got too close so they killed him. You help me take them down, you’ll get your answers.
Closure. Justice. And if you happen to catch a few incriminating bits of information here and there, evidence that could help me put them away, even better. ”
I exhale slowly, weighing his words, a storm building behind my ribs. “If you already know so much, why do you need me?”
He shrugs. “You’re on the inside. Right next to Yuri Ivanov. You could get us something solid. Something admissible. Not just hearsay and rumors.”
“Let me get this straight,” I say flatly. “You’re the FBI, but you’re asking me to do your job.”
“Sometimes justice needs a little help.”
“And sometimes,” I say, my voice low and cunning, “men like you pretend to care about justice when all you really want is a shortcut.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“Tell me who killed them,” I say.
He hesitates.
I nod once. “Thought so.”
“The Ivanovs were involved. That’s the truth.”
“No, that’s speculation. That’s bait.”
He leans forward, a sense of knowing flashing in his eyes. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
My blood goes cold. But I answer with nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The women’s clinic on Clark. You’ve been there twice in the past month. I’m just saying when things go down, that baby won’t be protected just because you kept your mouth shut.”
I grip my tea so tightly I nearly crack the cup, but I admit to nothing. “You think threatening me will get me on your side?”
Spalding lifts his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just trying to remind you that these people don’t care who gets caught in the fallout.”
I stand.
He watches me rise, all smug patience. “You’ll come around eventually. The door is open, but it won’t stay open.”
I look him dead in the eye. “Next time, bring evidence. Not threats.”
Then I walk away, pulse pounding, the fog outside suddenly feeling like it’s followed me in.
I have no idea what to do next.