Chapter 17
ASTRID
“Ican call you a car if you’d rather go home,” Yuri says softly. “But you’re welcome to stay.”
I hesitate. I want to be alone. To crawl into my bed, curl up under the covers, and process everything I just learned. But I also don’t want silence. Or stillness. Or the echo of my thoughts bouncing around an empty apartment.
I make a decision. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
There’s no triumph in his expression. “There are a few spare bedrooms upstairs,” he says. “If you’d rather have your own space tonight.”
The way he says it—delicate, unobtrusive—causes me to soften. He’s offering a boundary without putting up a wall.
I manage a small, tired smile. “That would be nice.”
He nods. “I’ll be in my office. Probably working late. But if you need anything…” His voice drifts, and he gestures gently to the whole penthouse. “Please make yourself at home.”
Then he disappears down the hallway, his footsteps vanishing into the hush of the place.
I’m alone.
I wander a little, stockinged feet brushing across dark hardwood floors that gleam under recessed lighting. The penthouse is tasteful, refined—just like Yuri. Steel blues, soft grays, and sleek lines. Expensive art that doesn’t scream for attention. Clean. Minimal. Masculine.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline like a painting, the city lights sparkling beyond the glass. I could get used to this view, but right now, it just makes me feel small.
I flop onto the oversized sectional in the living room.
I dig around for the remote and land on something brainless: Love Is Blind: Sweden.
Perfect. Glossy and emotionally bankrupt.
Exactly what I need. I press play and let it wash over me.
Gorgeous people making terrible choices in glass pods.
It’s so far from my world, it almost feels like therapy.
But the noise doesn’t block out the dark thoughts. Spalding’s voice won’t leave me. You’re pregnant, aren’t you? That awful smirk. The implication that if I didn’t play along, someone might get hurt.
What if that someone is me? Or worse—what if it’s my baby?
I pull the throw blanket tighter around me and sink deeper into the couch. I should be writing everything down. Planning. Preparing. But all I can do is sit there, letting the glow of reality TV flicker across my face while my mind spins.
Eventually, I give in to the exhaustion. The show blurs into a lull of Scandinavian accents and overly dramatic music. My eyes close. My breathing evens out.
I drift into a deep sleep.
I wake slowly, blinking into the soft morning light.
It takes me a second to realize something’s off.
The couch I fell asleep on was leather and angled toward a massive TV.
This… is not that. I’m in a bed with downy pillows and high-thread-count sheets, the kind that feel cool no matter how long you’ve been in them.
The air smells faintly like lavender and cedar wood.
Yuri must’ve carried me up.
The thought warms something deep in my chest. I sit up and stretch, arms reaching above my head. The view out the window is all golden skyline, just beginning to soften into blue.
For a moment, I wish he were here. But my eyes catch on something near the door, and the thought dissolves. A work outfit hangs neatly from a hook—blouse, blazer, tailored trousers. Not just nice. Exquisite. I swing my legs out of bed and pad over to it, brushing my fingers along the fabric.
The blouse is ivory silk, light as breath.
The blazer is dove gray, sharply cut but feminine, with matching slacks, crisp with a subtle high waist. Ivory Louboutin kitten heels.
Everything is timeless. Understated. Classy.
Expensive in that you only know if you know kind of way.
The kind of outfit a woman wears when she wants to walk into a boardroom and own it.
A box sits on top of the dresser. I open it to find a lovely bra and panty set. Feminine and soft.
I blink, touched in a way I didn’t expect to be.
Then I notice the note on the nightstand. Folded in half, resting neatly beneath a glass of water. The handwriting is bold, clear, and unmistakably his.
Astrid,
I hope you slept well. I noticed you didn’t bring anything to wear for work today, so I asked my sister Elena to pick something up from a boutique she trusts downtown and bring it over. I hope it fits.
The apartment has an arrangement with a car service—just call the front desk when you’re ready to leave, and they’ll send one.
–Yuri
I stare at the note a moment longer, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It’s all so Yuri. No fuss. Just thoughtful, seamless competence with a side of quiet care.
I press the note between my fingers for a moment, then set it gently back down.
After a quick shower, I get dressed. Every piece fits like it was made for me.
The silk skims my skin, the blazer sharpens my posture, the slacks hug all the right places.
I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself—not because I look different, but because I look like the woman I’ve always wanted to be.
I take a breath, smooth my hair, and call the front desk. I take one last look around Yuri’s penthouse before I leave. The morning sun glints off the glass walls, making the space appear golden.
When I step into the lobby, a sleek, obsidian-colored sedan waits at the curb. The man standing beside it wears a tailored suit and a stone expression. He’s clean-shaven, built like a linebacker, and most definitely armed.
As I approach, he opens the door without a word.
I slide inside, greeted by leather seats that feel like butter and tinted windows that wrap me in a quiet embrace. Soft music is playing—something string-heavy and orchestral.
The drive is short. Smooth. Not a single jolt or bump. It’s so absurdly luxurious it makes me want to laugh until we pull up to Ivanov Holdings and a brief spike of anxiety thrums through me.
The building looks the same. Modern steel and glass, pristine sidewalks, security at the door. But the second I step into the lobby, I feel it.
Something’s off. The energy’s wrong. It’s too tense, too still. More so than normal. The receptionist avoids my eyes. People are speaking in clipped tones, movements too quick or too slow.
I head to the elevators, heart ticking faster. On the ride up, I catch glimpses through the glass walls—Lev striding past with a phone to his ear, Luk leaning over a set of files in one of the conference rooms, Alexei standing like a sentinel by the far windows.
No sign of Yuri.
But strangely, I feel grounded. Like I belong here.
I reach my office and settle in, placing my bag carefully on the floor and booting up my computer. For a second, everything is quiet.
Ding.
The elevators open with a sharp, metallic hiss, and then everything erupts.
FBI agents flood the floor, barking orders, weapons holstered but hands hovering over them.
Leading the charge is Agent Spalding.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he announces. “We have warrants for the search and seizure of all physical and digital materials pertaining to Ivanov Holdings and its executive operations.”
Chaos ensues. Employees scramble. Security tries to step in, but the agents push past them, grabbing what they need—documents, binders, computers. Lev storms toward them, barking in Russian. Luk follows, more composed but no less furious. Alexei blocks the path to the data center.
The Feds have done their homework.
I slip out of my chair and walk calmly but quickly down the hall. Everyone’s distracted. No one stops me. I sneak into Yuri’s office and close the door behind me with a soft click.
The room is untouched. His desk is immaculate except for two USB sticks sitting beside his monitor. A third is plugged into the back of his desktop tower.
I feel the sudden need to protect him.
Without hesitating, I snatch the two from the desk and slide them into my pocket. Then I lean down, eject the one from the computer, and pocket that too.
Just as I turn to leave, I hear footsteps outside. I wait. Count to three. Then slip out. A pair of agents stride past me, heading straight into Yuri’s office. They don’t look back.
The next ten minutes are a blur. Agents move through the floors like locusts, collecting hard drives, laptops, and entire filing cabinets. Employees watch in stunned silence.
I’m standing near the elevator when it opens and Yuri steps out. His suit is unbuttoned, hair slightly mussed. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene in a single sweep.
He walks forward, calm with an ice cold expression on his face.
Spalding turns to face him. “Ivanov,” he says, smug and cruel, “you’re just in time. You and your brothers are coming with us for questioning.”
“For what?” Luk demands.
“Tax fraud. Racketeering. Pick your poison.” Spalding holds up a sheaf of papers. “We’ve got the warrants.”
One by one, the brothers are handcuffed. No resistance, just quiet fury behind every snap of the cuffs. Lev’s jaw ticks. Alexei mutters something low and deadly in Russian. Luk doesn’t speak, just stares straight ahead.
Yuri’s eyes find mine as they lead him past. He doesn’t say anything, but something flickers in his eyes—regret, warning, maybe both.
Just before the elevator doors close, Spalding turns and locks eyes with me. There’s no smirk. Just cold, smug certainty.
You’re next.