36. Veronica
36
VERONICA
I pause mid-step, a stack of novels balanced precariously in my arms, and take a moment to breathe it in.
Marco is dead. He can’t hurt me. I got my bookstore. Got the apartment down the street. Got everything I thought I wanted.
I feel eyes on me. So often now, I feel like I’m being watched. I mark it up to my increasing paranoia. Ever since the shootout, it’s been hard to relax.
This should be my safe space. Maxim assured me I’d no longer be at risk once I left him, made it seem like there was no other option. But I can’t help remembering the scene of my crime, shooting Marco dead just a few yards from where I stand.
Not that I got in any trouble for it. The bodies disappeared, the bullet holes were gone within an hour. Like it never happened. The only clue is one slight faint pink stain on the floor, a last lingering shadow of death.
I slide the books into place, adjusting them until the spines line up perfectly. My hands linger there for a moment, brushing over the titles, my thoughts drifting back to him.
Maxim.
I try to focus on the task at hand, to keep moving, but the silence of the store feels deafening, the memories creeping in through the cracks.
Maxim would’ve stood here with me, insisting the shelves be arranged a certain way. “Order matters,” he’d say with that clipped, no-nonsense tone of his, as if life itself depended on whether mystery novels sat next to romance.
I’d laugh, calling him ridiculous, and he’d smirk that rare, crooked smirk—the one that made me feel like I was special, like I was his.
But that’s over now. Isn’t it? He’s made his choice and that’s that. Used me to get Marco.
Marco’s dead because of what he did, I think to myself. Aren’t you happy?
I push the thought aside, moving to another shelf. My stomach feels tight, the kind of knot that refuses to loosen no matter how much you try to ignore it.
I run a hand over my belly, the curve not noticeable, but the knowledge of what it means weighs heavily. There’s no escaping it.
I’ve tried to picture his reaction. A million different scenarios playing out in my head, and none of them good.
How could someone like that ever be a good father? How could I trust him not to treat our child like an heir, a pawn in his brutal game?
Elena hasn’t pestered me but I know what she thinks.
I shake my head, the stack of books in my hands wobbling slightly.
She’d tell me I shouldn’t keep the truth from him. Whether or not I trust him, whether or not I believe he’s capable of love, he deserves the truth.
And maybe this is his chance to prove me wrong. To show me there’s more to him than the cold, calculating man I saw that night in the alley.
My phone sits on the counter, taunting me. I pick it up, my thumb hovering over his name in my call log.
It’s absurd that I haven’t deleted it, but some part of me knew this moment would come. The screen stares back at me, and for a second, I swear my hand shakes.
What if this is a mistake?
What if he reacts the way I fear he will—detached, logical, as if this child is nothing more than a problem to solve? Or worse, what if he doesn’t care at all?
But I can’t keep living in this limbo. If I don’t tell him, if I don’t at least try, I’ll always wonder. And if I’ve learned anything in the past few months, it’s that wondering is worse than knowing. Even if knowing hurts.
I press the call button, the line ringing in my ear. My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my chest, each second stretching unbearably long until his voice finally cuts through.
"Veronica," he says, his tone sharp, laced with something I can’t quite place. Relief? Anger?
“Maxim,” I reply. “We need to talk.”
There’s a pause, and for a moment, I think he might hang up. But then he answers, his voice low. “When and where?”
I glance around the bookstore. “Here.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he says, and the line goes dead.
I set the phone down, staring at it as if it might come to life again. The silence in the store feels heavier now, pressing down on me, but there’s no turning back. I’ve made my decision.
Hang on. How can he get here that fast? How does he know where I am?
When he strides in precisely five minutes later, his movements are measured, his expression unreadable. He’s dressed impeccably as always.
My heart does a traitorous flutter before sinking, my mind shouting at me to remember why we’re here. I straighten in my chair, clasping my hands tightly in my lap to keep them from shaking.
He doesn’t sit immediately. His dark eyes scan me, searching for something—weakness, maybe, or answers.
Finally, he lowers himself into the seat I offer, his movements controlled, his jaw tight. The silence stretches unbearably before he speaks.
“You said you wanted to talk.” His tone gives nothing away. “So talk.”
I take a shaky breath, summoning every ounce of courage I have. My voice wavers at first but steadies as I meet his gaze. “I thought you deserved to know. You’re going to be a father.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and unyielding. His sharp intake of breath is the only sound, and for a moment, I think I see something crack in his icy exterior. But then his expression hardens, his eyes narrowing.
“Well?” I say. “Haven’t you got anything to say?”
“I know already.” His voice is sharp.
“You know already?” I slap my forehead. “You found the pregnancy test, didn’t you?”
He shakes his head. “I heard you telling Elena.”
“What, when?”
“At the bar last night.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s why you got here so fast. Fuck, Maxim. You break up with me then stalk me. Choose a lane for crying out loud.”
“Did you not think I had a right to know about my child?”
My hands clench together, my nails biting into my palms. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” I admit, my voice rising despite my effort to stay calm. “And if I’m being honest, I didn’t think you’d react well. Look at you now. All you care about is your right. Not the child. Not me.”
His brows furrow, his jaw tightening further. “You thought you could decide that for me? That I wouldn’t care about my own child?” His tone grows colder. “Do you have so little faith in me?”
“Faith? Maxim, you’ve spent our entire marriage proving that you only care about control. I watched you slit a man’s throat.”
“And I watched you shoot one. Are we that different?” He leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing, his voice dropping into a dangerous calm. “You think I’m like Marco but there’s a big difference. I never hurt you.”
“No, just used me as bait and then dumped me.”
Something flickers in his eyes—anger, pain, I can’t tell. But his face remains a cold mask as he replies. “Fine. If that’s how you see me, then I won’t fight you. Raise the child on your own. I’ll fund whatever you need, and I’ll stay out of your way. Then when it turns eighteen, it can decide if it wants this empire or not.”
“It?” My eyes narrow. It feels like the final blow, the death knell of everything I once thought we could have. My voice shakes as I say, “You’re dead inside, Maxim. I don’t want anything from you. Just stay out of my life forever.”
For a moment, he looks like he might argue, his lips parting slightly. But then he leans back, his face hardening into something unrecognizable. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek folder, dropping it on the floor between us.
“Sign that,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “And it’s over. If you don’t think I can look after our child, sign and be done with the whole thing.”
“Sign what?”
“Divorce papers, of course.”
My hands tremble as I glance down at the file. The sight of them feels like a knife twisting in my chest, but I force myself to meet his gaze. His eyes are unreadable, his mask firmly in place.
“Goodbye, Maxim,” I whisper as he walks out the door.