39. Ruslan
Ruslan
The mountains disappear behind us one mile at a time. By late morning, the road has flattened into familiar stretches of interstate. The peaks fading into the rearview mirror until only the Denver skyline remains ahead.
The city rises from the horizon beneath a pale autumn sky. Clouds hang low overhead, threatening rain but not quite committing. The weight of the day settles heavier across my shoulders with every passing exit.
Emma sits quietly beside me. The radio remains off, and neither of us seems interested in filling the silence with conversation that would only circle the truth waiting fifteen minutes ahead.
I glance toward her when the traffic slows.
She’s looking out the passenger window, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb over the curve of her stomach beneath her sweater. It’s a gesture I’ve noticed more and more these past few days, one she probably isn’t even aware she’s making anymore.
I want to ask her: Are you sure? Do you still want this child? Do you still want me?
The questions linger behind my teeth before I swallow them back. She deserves more than being cornered in the middle of a highway.
Besides, neither of us has truly had a chance to breathe since I returned from California. The flight, Shannon, phone calls that have stretched late into every evening to orchestrate what comes next.
Lawyers, television producers, reporters I’d spent years carefully avoiding.
Everything has happened at once.
Everything except the conversation I keep postponing.
Emma shifts in her seat, catching me looking.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
She studies me for another second, clearly unconvinced, before offering a small smile anyway. It’s enough to steady me—for now.
Three black SUVs follow behind us in disciplined formation, never drifting far from the rear bumper. Two carry men I flew in from California, people who have stood beside me long enough that I trust them with my life.
The third carries Shannon.
I glance into the rearview mirror. I can’t see her through the tinted glass, but I know she’s there. Quiet, terrified, and determined.
She’s had a few days now to back out or run, if she wanted to. Privately, I’d given Frank instructions to let her go if that’s what she tried.
But she hasn’t.
Instead, she boarded a plane, crossed two states, and agreed to stand before cameras with the man who destroyed both our lives.
Courage rarely looks fearless. Most often, it looks exactly like Shannon.
The city swallows us, and the traffic thickens. Brick buildings replace pine forests, familiar intersections replacing winding mountain roads. Every block carries another memory I spent years trying to push away because it hurt too much to be away from it.
Now I’m driving back into the past, looking to make a future.
Emma reaches across the center console and rests her hand lightly over mine. I don’t look away from the road, but I turn my hand over until our fingers lace together.
The Ritchie Center comes into view several minutes later.
The parking lot is already overflowing. Satellite news vans line the curb, their antennas reaching toward the gray sky.
Luxury sedans, police cruisers, and camera crews crowd the entrance.
There are enough people gathered outside that I know we’ve arrived exactly when we were supposed to.
The event has already begun. This will be one of Andrei’s biggest campaign events leading up to the election.
Perfect.
I pull the SUV to the curb, and the engine falls silent. For one long moment neither of us moves—this is the point of no return.
I step out first. The crisp Denver air greets me immediately, carrying the distant murmur of reporters and the unmistakable buzz of a crowd gathered just inside the glass entrance.
Rolling my shoulders once, I crack my neck and am greeted by the familiar pop that puts me in the zone. Not anxiety, but anticipation.
I open Emma’s door before she has the chance. She looks up at me, and the uncertainty in her eyes lasts only a heartbeat before she places her hand in mine. I help her from the SUV carefully, waiting until both feet are firmly on the pavement before letting go.
“You okay?” I ask. She nods.
“I am.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.” Her fingers brush mine again. “But I’m going to.”
The second SUV door opens behind us, followed quickly by the third.
My security team spreads outward with a professional air. In a variety of charcoal and black suits, well-tailored, they could be lawyers or business moguls. But their sharp eyes scan the area, flicking to rooftops, cataloguing vans and crowd size.
Taking in Andrei’s own men, in obvious uniform with tech in their ears and holsters visible.
Two men stay behind, waiting as Shannon steps out. They are assigned specifically to her, not just because they’re good at their jobs, but because they have the right demeanor to make her feel calm and safe.
She pauses beside the SUV for just a moment, smoothing trembling hands over the front of a navy wool coat she’d borrowed for today. The guards move instinctively to either side of her, though she barely seems to notice them.
She notices the building instead. The camera, the crowd—the climax she’s spent years avoiding.
She’s nervous.
Anyone with eyes could see that.
But she lifts her chin, anyway.
She’s tired, too. The years have left quiet traces across her face, yet it’s still possible to see the young woman she was once. If anything, that youthful innocence has been replaced with something stronger—a resilience.
Shannon catches my eye across the parking lot. I walk toward her, Emma joining me without hesitation. Even though they’ve only had a handful of opportunities to talk, the women are obviously bonded thanks to what they’ve endured.
For a moment, the three of us stand together beneath the gray Colorado sky while reporters continue talking inside, completely unaware of what is about to happen.
I look first at Emma. Then at Shannon.
Finally, toward the entrance.
“Ready?” I ask.
Neither woman answers immediately. Then, almost together, they nod.
* * *
The moment we step through the doors of the Ritchie Center, I know we’re right on time.
The applause that had been filling the arena falters, replaced by a ripple of confused murmurs that spread outward like a stone skipping across water. Hundreds of faces turn toward us in unison, and somewhere near the front row a camera flash pops, followed immediately by another.
Then another.
The media reacts first.
They always do. The smart ones noticed us out in the lot and shot a few surreptitious photos then, but now they’re sure. They know that Andrei’s half-brother hasn’t returned for a loving reunion.
His security reaches us before anyone else, four men breaking away from the edge of the stage.
They don’t make it more than a few strides before my own team intercepts them, each confrontation over almost as quickly as it begins.
No punches are thrown. Arms pinned, radios confiscated, egos bruised more than bodies.
It’s professional, clean, and exactly what I told them I expected. The last thing I need is to be kicked out of Denver again, this time for inciting violence.
Emma’s hand slips into mine. I squeeze it once before letting go.
“Stay close.”
She nods, though I can already feel every eye in the room following me as I walk toward the stage.
Andrei has stopped speaking. He stands frozen behind the podium, one hand still resting on his carefully prepared notes while outrage slowly replaces surprise across his face. His campaign banner hangs behind him, immaculate and patriotic, as though appearances alone can hold back the truth.
I climb the steps without hurrying.
“Ruslan,” he snaps. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer, hearing the strain it’s taking for him not to throw some expletives into the question. Instead, I cross the stage until we’re only a few feet apart.
“You don’t belong here.”
I reach for the microphone. He tightens his grip on it, and for half a second we simply stare at one another before I pull it cleanly from his hand.
The speakers crackle. Every conversation in the arena dies. I look out over the crowd.
“My apologies for interrupting.”
The room remains utterly silent.
“My brother was just discussing integrity.”
A nervous laugh escapes someone near the back, and I wonder bitterly just how many people find the hypocrisy in that—but aren’t saying anything about it.
“I thought it appropriate to add context.”
Andrei steps toward me, reaching for the mic, but having to call out: “Don’t listen to a word this man says.”
I continue as though he hasn’t spoken.
“When I was younger, I believed family meant something. I was mistaken.”
The cameras never stop flashing. This is much more forward than the speech I gave at his wedding, and if they were there for that, they know something earth-shattering is coming.
“So allow me to introduce the real Andrei Smirnov, before you decide to elect him as one of your state representatives.” I let the silence settle before continuing, wanting to make sure everyone is paying attention to my next words: “The man standing beside me abandoned his own daughter before she was born.”
A wave of whispers rolls through the audience.
“He threatened the child’s mother until she disappeared into hiding, terrified that speaking publicly would cost her life.”
Andrei laughs. It’s polished, practiced, almost as if he expected me to bring this up, and almost convincing. But I know him well enough to see the way his knuckles whiten and one corner of his mouth twitches.
“My half-brother has always had quite an imagination,” Andrei calls, trying to step into my space, smiling toward the cameras.
I stonewall him, holding my posture so perfectly and resolutely that he practically bounces off my side.
His face reddens at the embarrassment, and he continues briskly, “For those of you unfamiliar with our family history, Ruslan has blamed me for every disappointment he’s experienced since childhood. ”