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When a door slams downstairs, my heart kicks in my chest. Something about that slam rattles me, but not as much as the thought of what Grigor might be walking into. I’m still furious that he installed a tracker on my phone, that he didn’t trust me enough to ask me outright about my movements. Okay, I guess he did and I lied, but still. That anger doesn’t override the worry no matter how much I know it should. He might have violated my privacy, but I still don’t want him to get hurt.

Grigor’s footsteps shuffle through the entry hall. He’s always on the move, but tonight feels different. A tightness lodges in my gut. I recall the phone call he received yesterday in the middle of our fight, how he grew distant afterward and responded to my questions with brusque half-answers. That’s always how he answers, but the abruptness felt more pronounced this time.

My grip tightens on the banister. Something’s wrong. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s running headlong into danger. If it’s connected to the phone call, it might involve the trap I suspect is being set for him. The thought makes my stomach churn with guilt. I’ve known for days that my father and his allies have been working angles, and I’ve kept quiet, hoping it wouldn’t escalate. I’ve been trying my best to piece things together the last few hours, to try to wrap my mind around what could be happening that’s so urgent.

I replay my last conversation with my father, just hours before Grigor returned home. It was mostly thinly veiled threats and cryptic remarks, but one thing stands out. He mentioned that someone had been tracking Grigor’s movements, saying. At the time, I didn’t think it was that unusual. In this world, you always keep tabs on anyone you deem a threat, and Grigor is a powerful man. But now…

I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to pass it along to my father. I found some silly information about security details and meeting places. It wasn’t critical, I thought, just a small concession to keep Cecily safe. But what if that was exactly the information the Irish needed to set a trap?

A cold sweat breaks out as realization dawns. I helped them lay the groundwork. And now, Grigor is about to walk right into it. He’s about to charge into a setup. And it’s my fault.

I race down the stairs, nearly colliding with a table in the foyer. My breath comes short as I spot Grigor by the front door, yanking on his coat. He glances up and sees me, but his expression stays rigid.

“I’m leaving,” he says tersely, checking his watch.

“Wait,” I blurt, stepping forward. “You can’t go. Not yet.”

He arches a brow, clearly in no mood for discussion. “This is business.”

“I know, but Grigor… I think it might be a trap. That phone call from Fyodor… You can’t just walk into it.”

His jaw flexes, a sign of annoyance. “So you’ve decided to share your suspicions now?”

I swallow and resist the urge to look at the ground. He’s right. I should’ve told him earlier. But I was paralyzed by fear, worried that he’d blame me for my father’s plotting. “I was afraid you’d accuse me of being in on it.” Okay, that part is true at least, even if I technically am in on it.

“So instead you stayed silent, letting me risk my neck? That’s how little you trust me?”

“It’s not about trust,” I fire back, though even as I say it, I realize how empty that sounds. Everything is about trust in this world. “I… I didn’t want you to get caught up in my father’s mess. But it’s real, Grigor. The Irish are pulling strings, and Fyodor might be part of a plan to take you out.”

His shoulders tense. “Take me out, or set me up?”

“Both, possibly. My father owes them a debt. They want leverage on you. If Fyodor claims to have found the killer, it could be a perfect lure to corner you or to shift blame onto someone else like my father in a way that benefits the Irish. I’m not sure which angle they’re working, but I know it’s dangerous.”

He exhales, setting his hand on the doorknob as though itching to leave anyway. “You think I don’t know that? I saw through Fyodor’s story the moment he called. He’s never been reliable.”

I blink, surprised. “You… You knew?”

His mouth sets in a grim line. “I suspected. Now, thanks to your last-minute confession, I have confirmation. Why, Seraphina? Why were you helping your father? After everything he’s done to you, why choose him over me? Your husband ?”

This time, his question isn’t demanding, not angry, just… genuine. For the first time, he’s asking, not accusing. And somehow, that makes the answer harder to say.

“It’s Cecily,” I manage through a tight throat. “He’s using her to control me. He said if I didn’t cooperate… if I didn’t give him what he needed, he’d hurt her. Marry her off to someone worse than you—or worse, let the Irish take her to make a point.”

I pause, watching his expression harden. I know he lost his sister to this world. She was murdered before she had a chance to escape it. The memory of that loss must be going through his mind right now, and I find myself praying he’ll understand. That he’ll see why I had no choice, even if it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done.

“You think cooperating with him will protect her?” he asks after a moment. “That man only looks out for himself.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I force them back. “What was I supposed to do, Grigor? I couldn’t risk her being dragged into this. She’s innocent.”

“And you thought betraying me would solve that?” His voice stays calm, but there’s a rough edge underneath it. “You thought your father could be trusted to keep his word?”

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed. “I didn’t know what else to do. He’s my father. She’s my sister. I—”

“You’re torn,” he finishes, cutting me off but not unkindly. “You’ve been backed into a corner, and you don’t trust me enough to believe I could help.”

I look away as the guilt prickles at my skin. He’s right. I didn’t trust him—not the way I should’ve. I thought I could manage this on my own, that protecting Cecily meant keeping him out of it. But now, standing here with the truth between us, I realize how badly I miscalculated.

My voice feels small when I speak. “You said you knew this was a trap. Does that mean… You’re not going to walk right into it?”

He studies me for a moment, probably wondering if he can trust me to answer honestly or if I’m just going to feed his answer back to my father. “I’m still going,” he finally answers, “but on my terms. If this is a trap, I’ll be the one springing it.”

I press a hand to my chest. “I can’t let you do that alone. Let me help.”

“Absolutely not. You’ll stay here, under guard, like we agreed.”

“Grigor, I can’t stand by if they’re trying to kill you. Let me come along. Maybe I can glean something from them, or distract them.”

“No.” His tone is final. “I don’t trust your father, or the Irish, or Fyodor. And I sure as hell won’t risk you being caught in the middle.”

Tears threaten to well again, but I blink them back. “You’re risking yourself.”

He brushes my cheek with a gentleness at odds with his stormy mood. “That’s my job. Protecting you is also my job. Stay here. That’s an order.”

I want to argue, to beg him not to go, but I sense the futility. He’s made up his mind. “Fine. But promise me you won’t get yourself killed.”

A wry smile ghosts across his lips. “I’m not so easy to kill.”

He leans in to press a kiss on my forehead. The unexpected tenderness nearly undoes me. “I’ll be back,” he whispers before stepping away.

I watch him stride down the steps, calling for a car. His men snap to attention at his command, as they always do. If he’s heading into a viper’s den, even with a plan, anything can happen. But there’s nothing I can do except wait.

***

I pace the living room after he leaves, with the clock ticking loudly in my head. The staff tries to offer me dinner, tea, anything to calm me. I can’t even think about eating. Each moment drags as I imagine every terrible scenario. My father’s threats, Fyodor’s cunning, the Irish mob’s ruthlessness—none of it bodes well.

Guilt coils through me. I was so fixated on saving Cecily that I didn’t consider the cost to Grigor. And now, if something goes wrong tonight, it’ll be on my conscience forever.

I force myself to sit on the sofa, counting my breaths. A swirl of nausea passes over me, and I fight the urge to retch. Stress, I tell myself. It has to be stress. I bury my face in my hands, wishing I could vanish into the cushions.

Time inches forward. Eventually, the exhaustion of worry pushes me to my room. I close the door and lean against it. My mind drifts to the calendar pinned to the wall, the one with scribbled notes about gatherings and deadlines.

I recall a note about my sister’s birthday, and next to it, an asterisk marking the date of my last cycle, and my stomach drops. It’s been… well, more than six weeks. Actually, closer to two months. The thought crossed my mind the other day, but I told myself I must be off by a week or two.

The anxiety spikes again, accompanied by another wave of nausea. My heart races. Could I be pregnant? The possibility sinks its claws into me, terrifying and strangely mesmerizing at the same time.

I lock myself in the bathroom and rummage through drawers for the box I stashed away months ago. My hand finally closes around it, pulling it out into the flickering overhead light. A pregnancy test. I never thought I’d need it since my marriage to Grigor was forced. Our passion was an unexpected outcome of circumstances. This test was stuffed into a gift bag given to me by a distant aunt on my wedding day. I scoffed at the time, but now…

Well, thank you, Aunt Linda.

I set the test on the sink and read the instructions carefully, ignoring the trembling in my fingers. I follow each step meticulously as my mind tangles with questions I’m not ready to answer.

Moments later, I place the test on a flat surface and step away, trying to keep calm. Every second feels like an eternity. I recall how I used to soothe Cecily when she was anxious, reminding her to breathe, to focus on something tangible. Now, I’m the one needing that reassurance, and there’s no one here to give it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, counting off the required time. The sense of dread grows. What if it’s positive? What if it’s negative? Both outcomes terrify me in different ways.

When I finally force myself to look, the result is clear. Positive.

My breath hitches. I stare at the test with my heart pounding so loudly I can hear it in my ears. A baby. Grigor’s child. The father of this innocent life might be walking into mortal peril as I stand here, discovering this news alone.

I slump against the bathroom wall as tears prickle at my eyes. A thousand thoughts race through my mind. I’ve always been maternal. Cecily was practically my responsibility from the time we were kids, with Father too busy scheming. Caring for a sibling is one thing, though. Having a child is a completely different reality.

What about Grigor? He’s never once mentioned wanting children. He lives in a violent world, one he navigates without a second thought. Does a child fit in that life? And how can I bring a baby into this war-torn existence, where men like my father and the Irish mob would use any weakness to strike?

My breath comes shorter, and panic claws at my chest. Grigor might see this child as a burden, or worse, a vulnerability. An asset or a liability. He’s always so strategic about everything. But recently, he’s shown me glimpses of something else, something more tender. Could he welcome a baby? Could he be the protective father figure I suspect he might be?

Doubt crushes me. I’ve lied to him, withheld crucial information. I’ve all but handed him to my father’s schemes. Why would he trust me enough to build a life with me and a child, especially now? The thought that he might reject me, or this baby, stings like salt in a wound.

I press a hand to my abdomen, and tears slip down my cheeks. I feel a swelling of protectiveness already, a fledgling connection to this tiny life inside me. Despite the heartbreak and fear, part of me wants this child. I want a chance at a family that isn’t built on lies and violence. But is that even possible with Grigor and me?

A sob tumbles out of my mouth, muffled by my hand. This might be the worst possible timing. My father is practically my husband’s mortal enemy. My father’s debt to the Irish looms, Grigor is embroiled in constant conflict, and I’m stuck in the crossfire with no clue how to protect myself—or this unborn child.

I imagine telling Grigor, seeing the look of shock or betrayal on his face. Or maybe he’d display that same eerie calm that warns of a storm. I picture him placing his hand on my stomach, a fleeting moment of warmth in this cold, dangerous life we share. And then I imagine him turning away, deciding it’s too much risk.

A wave of nausea hits me again, forcing me to kneel by the toilet. Tears drip onto the tile as I fight the urge to vomit. My mind whirls with the knowledge that I’m carrying a life that could become a target the minute anyone finds out.

I realize I can’t tell a soul. Not yet. Not until I figure out what this means for me, for my marriage, for the precarious state of affairs around us. If Father learns about this pregnancy, he’d see me as an even bigger bargaining chip. The Irish might exploit it if they suspect Grigor has a new weakness. Grigor himself… I can’t predict his reaction.

I stand slowly, wiping my face. My reflection in the bathroom mirror reveals reddened eyes and trembling lips. I look like someone I scarcely recognize. Someone cornered with no exit plan.

I fold the test in some tissue and hide it in the bottom of the trash can, then wash my hands, scrubbing until they ache. My thoughts roil with possibilities, none of them offering comfort.

Eventually, I return to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I climb onto the bed, sitting cross-legged, cradling my midsection as if I can shield the tiny life inside. My breath quivers. Grigor is out there, facing enemies on all sides, and I’m here, discovering I’m pregnant with his child.

I close my eyes, wanting to vanish under the blankets. But I can’t. My father’s manipulations, the Irish threat, Grigor’s precarious alliances—they’re all converging into a crisis I can’t pretend isn’t there. And now, there’s a child in the mix.

Sorrow hits me again, and I bury my face in my hands. I recall the day I tried to nurse Cecily’s fever, how I stayed by her side, singing lullabies. I remember the countless nights I spent cooking her meals when Father was away. I took on a guardian role with her. Can I do that for my own child while living in a world that thrives on bloodshed?

I sense the weight of my phone in my pocket, the device that’s tracked me and betrayed me at the same time. A war rages inside me: should I call Grigor, beg him to come home, confess everything? Or do I stay silent, let him handle the trap he’s walking into, and see if we can survive this crisis before I drop another bombshell in his lap?

I press my trembling lips together. No. Telling him now, while he’s on a mission, could distract him dangerously. If he’s stepping into an ambush, any slip of focus might cost him his life. I won’t do that to him.

So I wait. I wrap my arms around myself, and I stare at the door as though expecting him to burst through any second, wearing that weary smirk, telling me he outsmarted them all. Then I could run to him, confess my news, and maybe, just maybe, we could figure this out together.

But reality douses that hope. The harsh truth is that I lied to him for weeks. I aided my father’s side. I kept secrets that might have jeopardized his safety. He forgave me, or at least put aside his anger for the moment, but trust is fragile. Will he think this child is another manipulation? A ploy to keep him bound to me?

I shake my head and push the vicious thought aside. This child is real, and it deserves a chance. I can’t let cynicism taint that.

Time crawls by as I remain perched on the bed with tears drying on my cheeks. I debate calling Cecily, but I can’t risk Father intercepting the call and discovering my pregnancy.

Eventually, I lie down, cradling my stomach. The hush of the room feels oppressive. I close my eyes, whispering a silent plea that Grigor returns safely. Because whether I trust him or not, whether he wants this baby or not, I can’t face this alone.

He’s the father of my child, and something in my heart insists that must count for more than the violence overshadowing our lives.