Page 31

T he last few days have been good. Great, really.

Being married to Sammy is everything I never dared to dream of.

He’s attentive, protective, and so ridiculously thoughtful that I don’t know what to do with myself half the time.

Every morning, we go to work together. Every afternoon, he stops by my office at least once— sometimes twice —just to check on me.

Sometimes, he brings me a treat. One of those decadent coffees I’m definitely becoming addicted to, or a melt-in-your-mouth cookie from the bakery on the ground floor of Volkov Towers.

But the truth? I’m more addicted to him than anything else.

He doesn’t even try to be romantic. It’s just who he is. And somehow, that makes it even worse for my already fragile heart.

The app is coming along beautifully. The team Sammy built for me is incredible— driven, smart, and dedicated.

It hasn’t escaped my notice that most of them are women.

And the two men? Well, they’re both old enough to be my dad and happily married for decades.

I get what he did. It makes me grin just thinking about it.

I hope he knows I’d never even look at another man.

Why would I?

Sammy is everything. The only thing I have ever wanted.

But something’s been weighing on him.

I see it in the way his jaw tightens when he thinks I’m not looking. In the way his fingers flex and curl, like he’s trying to hold something in.

He tries to hide it from me, but I know something is going on. Something that has him distracted.

I just wish he’d come to me with it.

Maybe it’s old-fashioned, but I want to be there for him. The way he’s always there for me. I want to ease his burdens the way he eases mine.

But tonight? Tonight, I have to go home alone.

A soft pat-pat-pat of rain hits my office window, the muted sound usually soothing. Not today.

Because Sammy just told me this morning— no discussion, no warning —that he wouldn’t be home until late.

He has something to do at the Vipers’ Den.

And my gut tells me that whatever is keeping him distracted is tied to that.

I replay our conversation in my mind, my fingers tightening around the edge of my desk.

It wasn’t much of a conversation at all.

“I need to do something tonight. I won’t be home until late.”

My stomach had dipped. Do something? That was vague. Too vague.

“Do? What do you mean?”

His gaze had flickered, but only for a second.

“It’s nothing. For work. I’ll be at the Den.”

Like that was supposed to comfort me. Like that wasn’t the worst answer he could have given.

“Sammy, are you okay?”

He’d exhaled hard, like he was trying to hold something in. Like he didn’t want to lie but also didn’t want to tell me the truth

“Of course, I’m okay.”

Then, as if sensing my hesitation, he’d added, “Why don’t you invite some of the girls over? Order dinner, watch a movie? We can send cars.”

A distraction.

That’s what it was.

Just a distraction. And I let him do it. I let him brush me off.

“Okay,” I’d whispered.

B ut I wasn’t okay. Not then. Not now.

Something is wrong.

And I need to find out what.

The second five o’clock rolls around, I don’t wait. I don’t linger by my desk, hoping Sammy will show up to say goodbye.

I just leave.

Santos is already waiting in the garage, standing by the SUV, his posture rigid as ever. He doesn’t say much, just opens the back door for me.

“We waiting for Mr. Ramirez?”

I shake my head, slipping inside. “No.”

That’s all I give him. No explanation. No elaboration.

Sammy might trust Santos, but I don’t know him, not really. And right now, I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone.

The doors shut, and as soon as we pull out onto the street, my phone buzzes.

Sammy.

I should answer.

But I don’t.

I don’t want to talk to him in the car.

Not with an audience. Not when I know my voice might betray me.

A text comes through next.

Sammy

Where are you?

I exhale softly, rolling my lips together before typing my reply.

Me

On my way home alone. I figured you’d be busy getting ready for whatever it is you’re doing tonight.

There’s a longer pause this time before his response comes through.

Sammy

Pixie, you know me. You know I’d want to say goodbye first.

My fingers hover over the screen, my chest tightening.

Me

Do you? Because you didn’t tell me that when you debriefed me this morning.

Sammy

Aella, it’s not like that.

I don’t answer this time.

And it’s petty.

I know it’s petty.

I know I’m being a brat.

Sammy’s been nothing but perfect to me.

Patient. Protective. Attentive in ways I never even dreamed of.

Maybe— probably —he can’t tell me what’s going on. Maybe whatever this is, it really is for my own good.

But it doesn’t stop the creeping sense of doubt.

Of worry.

Because no matter how I twist it, I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

That something is being kept from me.

And maybe it’s selfish, but what stings the most is that I wanted tonight to be special.

I wanted it to be the night.

The night I finally told him I love him, too.

And now?

Now I don’t even know where he’s going or why.

And that feels dangerous.

Not just because of what Sammy is capable of.

But because of who he is.

And who he might be doing this for.

For me. He is doing it for me.

But I don’t understand what’s happening.

Because he didn’t tell me.

And that is something I do not like.

The silence. The unknown.

It sits like a weight on my chest, pressing down harder with each passing second.

Still, before I can talk myself into spiraling further, I yank my phone out and start a group text with all the girls, inviting them over to the house in Montclair.

It feels strange. But also wonderful.

Like I’m taking a step into something real. Something mine.

Ours.

The house Sammy built for us is amazing. I haven’t completely put my stamp on it yet, but I’ve started. Ordering little things here and there, rearranging spaces to feel more like me.

There are still things to pick up from my parents’ house, but nothing urgent. It’s not like I need furniture or houseware.

And really, the place is beautiful. Like something out of a magazine.

But he’s told me— more than once —that I can do whatever I want to the place. That I should make it ours.

Then, as if to seal the deal, he handed me a black American Express card.

For that exact purpose.

I haven’t used it yet. But maybe I’ll work up the nerve soon.

In fact, maybe that’s what tonight will be about. A kind of reality TV, dinner, and interior design brainstorming session.

Something to distract me from this gnawing feeling in my gut.

My phone pings.

I glance down and grin.

Andrea, Clementine, Michaela, Lucy, and Leanna are all coming over.

Good. I need this.

The moment Santos pulls into the garage, I reach for the handle before the vehicle even comes to a full stop.

I don’t wait.

I don’t let him open the door for me.

That’s something Sammy does.

And it doesn’t feel right, having someone else do it, even though I know it’s just part of Santos’ job.

I pull the door open and step out, my heels clicking on the polished concrete.

Behind me, Santos clears his throat.

“I can get that for you, Mrs. Ramirez,” he says, sounding mildly shocked.

Or maybe alarmed.

I shake my head and wave a hand dismissively.

“Oh, no worries. Don’t bother. Goodnight, Santos.”

I don’t wait for a reply.

I just move.

Through the connecting door from the garage to the hallway beside the kitchen.

I can feel Santos watching me, and again, I am sure he is just doing his job but the second I step inside, I lock the door.

Then I engage the security system the way Sammy showed me.

It’s silly. I mean the guy is security and he can undoubtedly get in. But I feel better now.

The quiet hum of the locks clicking into place soothes me for a second.

I try to shake off the slight sense of unease I’m feeling.

But I chalk it up to jitters. After all, this is the first time I’ve been alone in this house.

I walk to the living room, depositing my purse on the table behind the sofa. Then I walk upstairs to the bedroom to get changed.

I don’t know if I’m entirely okay with someone else having access to the house when Sammy isn’t here.

And that’s something I’ll have to discuss with him later.

For now, I decide to put my big girl panties on and get the show on the road.

I take a quick shower, letting the hot water soothe some of the tension in my muscles. My mind is still running circles around everything.

Sammy’s secrecy.

This new life I’m adjusting to.

The way I still don’t feel fully settled in this house even though it’s technically mine.

I shake it off.

Once I’m dry, I throw on a pair of soft lounge pants and a matching cropped tee, something cute but comfy enough to signal that tonight is strictly a girls’ night in.

I know I’m a bit too fluffy for this kind of getup by society’s standards. But, and especially in my house , society can go fuck itself.

I’ve learned to love my curves and dimples. So if I want to wear a crop top, I am damn well going to.

By the time I finish placing various food orders from some of the best restaurants in town, the intercom buzzes.

I jump slightly at the sound before shaking my head at myself and pressing the button.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Ramirez,” a deep voice comes through the speaker. “Your guests have arrived.”

It takes me a second to place this security guard’s name.

Benny. That’s it.

“Oh, great! Thanks, Benny. Oh, and I ordered some food—it should be arriving soon.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring it up when it gets here.”

“Appreciate it,” I reply before disconnecting.

Five minutes later, I’m opening the front door, and I don’t even get a chance to greet everyone before Michaela and Leanna barrel inside, squealing like they just stepped into a palace.

Which, to be fair is kind of accurate.

“Oh my God! Aella! This is gorgeous!” Leanna practically shrieks, twirling in the foyer like she’s trying to take in everything at once.

“I know!” Michaela echoes, her eyes as big as dinner plates as she glances toward the high ceilings and the grand staircase. “Holy shit, girl. This place is unreal. I have got to get Liam to move us out of the city. Especially with baby number two here on the way!”

I laugh, closing the door behind them. “Thanks. But your condo rocks. Anyway, it’s not me. Sammy just has good taste.”

“Yeah, blame our mom,” Andrea interjects, a teasing smile playing on her lips as she trails behind her sisters.

But then she stops.

Right in front of a painting hanging near the entryway.

I turn to look at it— sunflowers against a golden, dusky sky, the brushstrokes bold and evocative.

I love this one but never really thought too much about it.

“I always wondered what happened to this,” Andrea murmurs, her voice quieter now.

“What do you mean?” I ask, stepping closer.

She glances at me, something unreadable in her expression. “Sammy painted this. Back in college.”

My heart stops.

“What?”

I blink at the painting like I’m seeing it for the first time.

Sammy painted this?

My Sammy?

“Are any of his other pieces in the house?” Andrea asks, her fingers lightly ghosting over the frame.

I swallow, suddenly feeling off-kilter.

“I—uh, I have no idea,” I admit, my cheeks heating.

Because how did I not know this?

Sammy paints?

Andrea offers me a small, almost sad smile, and it hits me then.

How much don’t I know about my husband?

I mean, I knew we had things to learn about each other.

But this?

This feels like a whole world I haven’t even touched.