Page 37 of Accidental Mile High Vows

“Yes, boss. Also, there’s been some chatter about your son. People are asking questions about his routine.”

My hand tightens on the phone. “Who?”

“Don’t know yet. Could be Kozlov’s people or someone else trying to get leverage on you.”

“Double security on Alexi. And tell him to watch his back.”

“Alright, boss.”

I hang up and stare at my phone. Threats to my son. Threats to my wife. This is the cost of the life I’ve built. The empire that looks clean on the surface but is rotting underneath.

And now everyone I care about is a target.

At 11:00 AM, my assistant buzzes me.

“Mr. Volkov, there’s a situation on the fortieth floor with Ms. Castellanos. She needs assistance.”

I’m out of my chair before she finishes the sentence.

I take the elevator down, and when I arrive, I find Savannah standing in the hallway outside the women’s restroom, holding her blazer closed with both hands. Her face is red, embarrassed.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing. It’s fine. I just—” She looks around at the people passing by. “Why are you here? This should be no concern of yours.”

“You’re my wife. Of course I’ve asked everyone to keep an eye on you.”

She scoffs. “Possessive much?”

“Just come with me.” I guide her into an empty conference room and close the door. “What happened? Tell me.”

“My shirt ripped. The seam just gave out during the presentation.” She’s mortified. “I can’t go back out there like this. I need to go home and change, but I have another meeting in an hour.”

“What size are you?”

“What?”

“Your size. For clothing.”

“Why does that matter?”

I pull out my phone and text my assistant. “I’m having something delivered. You’ll have it in thirty minutes.”

“Ledger, you don’t have to?—”

“Yes, I do.” I look at her. “You’re my employee. And my wife. I’m not letting you sit in a conference room for an hour because your shirt ripped.”

She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen the dress.”

Twenty-five minutes later, a garment bag arrives. Inside is a black sheath dress, simple and professional, exactly her size. I have it sent to the conference room where she’s waiting.

When she emerges fifteen minutes later, she looks perfect. The dress fits her like it was made for her.

“This is too much,” she says.

“It’s just a dress.”