Chapter 23
ASTRID
Idon’t remember arriving.
One moment I’m in my apartment, and the next, I’m standing alone in the grand foyer of the Ivanov mansion. It’s quiet. Candlelight flickers against polished wood. The rain stopped. There’s a strange hush outside, like the whole world is holding its breath.
And then I look down.
I’m in a gown. Not just any gown but a flowing, midnight-blue creation that feels like it was conjured from silk and stars.
My hands move instinctively to my stomach.
My belly is unmistakable now. Full, round.
Beautiful, even. The fabric curves around it like it was made just for me, because it was.
A mirror catches my eye, towering and ornate, like something out of a czar’s palace. I walk toward it, stunned. I can’t believe it’s me in the reflection. My hair is swept up in soft waves, skin luminous, eyes bright. I look radiant. Like a woman in love. Like a woman who knows she’s loved.
I almost laugh. What is this?
Before I can ask myself too many questions, the front doors burst open.
People pour in, an elegant and glittering sea of tuxedos and gowns.
Laughter echoes, champagne glasses clink.
A string ensemble appears as if conjured by a hidden spell, violins filling the air with haunting and impossibly beautiful music.
Chandeliers glow above. The Ivanov mansion has transformed into a ballroom pulled from a Russian fairy tale.
And then I see Yuri.
He’s standing at the top of the grand staircase, his black tux immaculate, his silver cufflinks catching the light. His hair is slicked back, sharp and regal. He looks like a prince.
No. Like a king.
The crowd parts for him as he descends the stairs, every step measured, every inch of him controlled power and elegance. His eyes find mine instantly, and I forget how to breathe.
He walks straight toward me and takes my hand, lifting it to his lips. “You look like perfection,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Beautiful. Unstoppable.”
My chest tightens with emotion. His hand settles gently on my belly. “I can’t wait to meet him. I can’t wait to build a life with you.”
He’s soft in this moment but still steel beneath the warmth. It’s Yuri as I’ve always wished he could be. Unafraid to love.
I open my mouth to answer, but the sudden crashing and shattering of glass stops me. The windows explode inward. Screams erupt. Gunfire cracks across the marble. Chaos follows instantly—guests ducking, running, colliding. The string ensemble goes silent. The music is replaced by terror.
Armed men dressed in tactical gear pour through the broken windows, shouting in Russian, all carrying automatic weapons.
Yuri turns sharply, instinct taking over. He pushes me back, shielding me with his body. But the crowd is too thick and I reach for him, calling his name.
“Astrid!”
His voice is there, fierce and focused, but distant. Hands grab at me, dragging me back through the stampede of terrified bodies. I see his arm stretched out toward me, his hand reaching.
I attempt to grab it, but I’m too far.
And then—
He’s gone.
A knock yanks me out of the dream like a slap.
I bolt upright, chest rising and falling quickly. The vision of the ballroom vanishes—the gown, the string ensemble, Yuri’s hand in mine—gone. Only the silence of my apartment remains, broken again by that damn knock.
Not gentle. Sharp. Authoritative.
I ease off the sofa, barefoot and careful, heart hammering against my ribs. Another knock, three loud raps, no patience behind them. I cross to the door slowly. My fingers tremble as I peek through the peephole.
Yuri.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh. I unlock the door and open it, blinking up at him.
He’s not in a tux, no ballroom fantasy, but he still manages to look absurdly good.
He’s dressed in a black coat over a dark navy button-down, the collar open just enough to show the sharp edge of his collarbone.
His slacks cling just right, and his hair, still damp from the rain, is pushed back like he couldn’t be bothered but somehow still pulls it off like a magazine spread.
“You look...” I catch myself before I say something stupid. “Wet.”
A shadow of a smile flickers across his face. “Can we talk?”
I step aside, not sure if it’s instinct or stupidity. “Come in.”
He walks past me, not quite brushing my arm but close enough. I shut the door and follow him into the living room.
“You okay?” I ask, folding my arms as I sit on the edge of my couch.
“I’m fine.” His tone is clipped but neutral as he settles in the armchair across from me. “We were released earlier. No charges.”
“So Spalding’s bluffing.”
“He’s probing. Testing limits. He wouldn’t make a move that public if he didn’t have anything. He thinks he’s close.”
“Is he?” I ask quietly.
Yuri looks at me with a blank expression on his face. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’m going into the office tomorrow to take an inventory of what’s been taken. What’s been touched.”
My mind flashes to the USB drives tucked away in my desk drawer. The ones I took before everything fell apart. I want to tell him, but a strange voice in me whispers not yet. Not until I know what he wants. What this is. If I’m a person to him, or a pawn.
After a long silence, he clears his throat.
“Spalding showed me photos,” he says quietly.
I freeze.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Of you. Coming out of a clinic.”
Shit.
“Women’s health,” he adds, slower this time, like he wants me to say it first.
My fingers curl into my palms, my nails digging into flesh. “So what?” I say, trying to hold my voice steady.
His jaw works like he’s biting back a dozen things at once. “You asked me for the truth, and I gave it to you. Now I need the same.”
I want to lie. I want to tell him it’s none of his business, that I’m handling it and don’t owe him a damn thing.
But I do.
I stand. My legs are shaking, but I steady them. I tilt my chin upward, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m pregnant.”
Silence. An exhale he doesn’t know I saw. His shoulders square, his mouth parts slightly. There’s surprise but something else.
Joy.
It’s small, almost buried, but I still see it. I feel it.
“I didn’t tell you,” I continue, “because I didn’t want to become a burden. An obligation. I didn’t want to be reduced to a tactical risk or someone you feel you have to manage.”
His eyes snap to mine, the flash of warmth buried again under ice. “I would never—”
“You are,” I cut in. “Even now. You’re talking about the office, and Spalding, and damage control. But what about us?” My voice breaks at the word. “Was that ever real, or was I just convenient?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it. For a moment, he doesn’t speak at all. Just stares at me. Then, slowly, he stands and reaches out. His fingers hover near my cheek, like he means to touch me, to reassure me. Maybe to connect in some small, human way.
I flinch back. Not dramatically but just enough. His hand freezes mid-air, then falls.
The space between us suddenly feels bigger than it is.
“Astrid,” he says. “I will protect you. I’ll provide for you. And for the baby. That is not a question.”
“No,” I whisper. “But everything else is.”
He takes a step forward. I want to back away but don’t. I hold my ground.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says softly.
I close my eyes for a second. “Maybe I do,” I murmur. “Or maybe I just don’t want to be someone’s secret shame. Some woman you tuck away in a safe house while you carry on being who you need to be for everyone else.”
He doesn’t respond right away, but I can see how my words land. Like I’ve struck a nerve he thought was long dead.
“Please go,” I say. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”
His breath catches for a second, then he nods—one sharp, precise movement—just like he does everything. Controlled. Restrained.
I turn away from him. The door opens then closes.
And I’m alone again.
But this time, it feels like something inside me has gone with him.