Chapter 27
TERESA
I’m holding the folder so tightly it’s as if it were contraband.
By the time the elevator whooshes up Angeloff Tower, every ounce of certainty I’d found in Dr. Renard’s office has started to leak out through the seams.
Tell him now, common sense chants.
What if he panics? What if he’s furious? What if he does the Vlad thing—replaces physicians with hit squads and wraps me in five layers of Kevlar until the baby’s born?
The elevator glides to a stop on the executive floor before I can argue myself into or out of anything. The doors open to reveal two junior analysts hunched over dual monitors, headphones on, racking up after-holiday overtime. The usual evening bustle is long gone, the space dim and quiet.
Vlad’s office door is slightly ajar, light slicing across the hallway carpet. I can hear the low growl of Vlad’s clipped replies to whomever is on the other end of the phone. Tension hums like a live wire and my pulse kicks. Maybe this is not the best moment.
I push the door open a tad. He turns, giving me a wave and I enter, sliding into a chair as he finishes the call.
“Teresa. You came here from home? Don’t tell me you slipped out without telling the guards again.” His eyes flick to the envelope held tightly against my chest, then to my face. His eyes reveal concern and preoccupation.
I clear my throat. “Rough phone call?”
“Nothing too bad,” he answers, his gaze fixed on me, expression easing a fraction. “Everything alright with you?”
The question lands like a challenge. My fingers grasp the folder tighter. Now, my conscience urges. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
“Just a busy day,” I manage. Which, technically, is not a lie.
He studies me. “It’s a beautiful night,” he says, pivoting away from whatever missile was delivered via that phone call. “How about a walk in your favorite part of Central Park—Bethesda Terrace.”
Air loosens in my lungs. Snow lightly falling, quiet arches, the angel fountain… it sounds like exactly the pocket of peace I need to confess life-changing secrets. I manage a smile. “I’d love that.”
I step forward and his hand finds the small of my back, grounding, guiding. The envelope pulses with warmth, waiting for its moment. Soon, beneath the angel statue, with snow in our hair and no walls to echo fear, I’ll tell him everything.
Snow hushes Central Park the way thick curtains mute a theater.
Vlad’s driver lets us off on 72nd, and we walk in near-silence through the Mall, our footsteps muffled in fresh powder.
Pinpoints of light from the lanterns touch the branches, and the holiday crowds have funneled south toward Times Square, leaving the spot ours alone.
Bethesda’s sandstone arches glisten as if brushed with sugar. I inhale the chilly air in an attempt to steady myself for words that keep fluttering away the moment I try to net them. The folder burns a steady warmth in my hand.
Tell him. Now.
We stop beneath the tiled ceiling—mosaic stars caught in the lamplight overhead. The fountain murmurs beyond the stairs, its angel dusted white. Vlad studies the statue, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, the clean winter light sharpening every angle of his face, making him appear ethereal.
“Frost feathers on her wings,” he says, as though we’re just two tourists admiring the architecture. The calm in his voice would be comforting if I didn’t feel every nerve in my body sparking.
“Vlad.” My voice is shaky at first before finding traction. “I need to show you something.”
His attention snaps to me, instantly assessing as if he were scanning a kill zone.
I reach into the folder and pull out the envelope, pressing it into his gloved hand before I lose courage.
He opens the flap and extracts the sonogram.
Under the terrace lamps the glossy print glows silver-gray, a tiny white crescent at the center, heartbeat captured mid-flutter.
He stills, staring at the image.
“Six weeks,” I say, breath ghosting between us.
He inhales sharply, his eyes flicking between me and the image. “You’re certain of the date?”
“Yes.” The word emerges in a half laugh, half sob. “Positive.”
Snow drifts across the tiles like shaken confetti. Vlad’s gaze sweeps the terrace perimeter, then settles once more on the printout. When he speaks again, his voice has shifted into briefing mode—neutral, organized.
“You’ll move under full medical protection from here on out.
Dr. Kornilov can oversee your care in Manhattan.
I’ll arrange a private OB stationed at Mount Sinai.
Third trimester we relocate upstate, helicopter on standby.
Legal paperwork will be drafted as soon as possible.
I want to make sure you and the child are taken care of if anything happens to me. ”
The words tumble out crisp and flawless, each one a sandbag on top of the next. Logistics, security, legal scaffolding.
He pauses only to ask, “Dietary needs? Supplements? Anything the doctor recommended?”
Wind funnels through the arch, and I realize my arms are wrapped around my middle in a defensive gesture. I clear my throat. “That’s… very thorough. But Vlad, I didn’t tell you because I need to discuss security logistics.”
He blinks, a tiny flicker of confusion crossing his features.
“I needed to know…” The words tumble out of my mouth. I don’t know how I expected him to react, but it wasn’t like this.
The city glow bounces orange against low clouds, painting a soft fire in his eyes. His face remains composed, almost impersonal. “You are my family now, Teresa. My priority.”
Family. Priority. Words that should feel warm land oddly flat, like they missed the bedside manner on-ramp. I think of New Year’s on the balcony, his palm on the small of my back, the tenderness.
He steps closer, gloved hands coming to my shoulders. “Teresa, you and the child will be safe. Volkov won’t come near you. Any threat—”
“It’s not only safety I’m afraid of losing.” I meet his eyes, allowing him to see the raw edges. “I need more than bulletproof glass. I need you.”
Something shifts in his gaze, like gears re-engaging. He exhales. One hand lifts, thumb brushing snowflakes from my eyelashes. For the first time since the sonogram appeared, he softens.
“I’m not practiced at this,” he admits. “Protection is the language I know.”
“I’m learning Russian.” I add a shaky smile. “Maybe you can learn this.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but the mask slips further, tenderness ghosting across his features. He tucks the printout back into its sleeve and slides it inside his coat over his heart.
“I will try.”
Snow keeps falling, more earnest now, flecking his dark hair. He leans in and presses his forehead to mine, breath mingling, and for a suspended beat the world falls away. He pulls back, fingers splayed over my coat, exactly over the spot where our child pulses like a secret star.
“Let’s go home. We’ll talk where it’s warm.”
He offers his arm and I take it. As we climb the steps, he’s already on the phone with Dmitri speaking low in Russian—more plans, more shields. But his free hand never leaves mine.
Halfway up the grand staircase, Vlad’s body tenses.
He pivots, eyes tracking the tree line where lantern light dies into shadow.
Footprints, a fresh, single set, cut through otherwise untouched snow, weaving the exact path we just took but stopping twenty paces back, as if the walker vanished mid-step.
“Teresa,” he whispers, dropping my hand to slide a discreet pistol from his coat. “Someone’s tailing us.”
My pulse slams. “Volkov?”
“Could be.” He scans the darkness.
The wind carries a faint metallic click. Vlad angles himself between me and the shadowed trees. “Change of plan. We run on three.”
Counting never starts; a muzzle flash blooms in the darkness, white and soundless. Vlad yanks me down behind the balustrade as stone chips explode overhead.
Somewhere in the trees, heavy boots crunch over the snow, closing in.