Page 135 of Desperate Games

Urban landscapes, hidden corners of the city, stolen moments of quiet beauty in chaos.

People are already murmuring about how raw and powerful the collection feels.

Exclusive. Priceless.

All the proceeds are being donated to stopping human trafficking, and I couldn’t be prouder of my wife than I am right now.

Honestly. Me? I’m just grinning like an idiot. Watching her shine.

We’ve got the afternoon showing, three to six, then a reception dinner at seven sharp.

Between the two, we’ll sneak upstairs for an hour of breathing space, maybe even time for me to get my hands on her if I’m lucky.

And speaking of upstairs—thank God for family.

With the entire penthouse floor secured, one suite has been converted into a Volkov Clan nursery.

On-call nurse, professional nannies, and a rotating crew of grandparents, aunts, and uncles all fighting over baby duty.

Callie, Andrew, and Elena have toys stacked higher than the Christmas tree last year. They’re spoiled, adored, safe.

It means Andy and I get to be here. Together.

And finally, after making her rounds—smiling at critics, laughing softly with patrons, listening to some pretentious collector wax poetic about negative space—she’s at my side.

Right where she belongs.

“Hello, Mrs. Falco,” I murmur, letting my hand slide over the curve of her waist, pulling her just close enough to remind her—and everyone watching—that she’s mine. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

Her lips curve, eyes sparkling as she leans in, whispering just for me.

“You might have mentioned that, Mr. Falco. But I can stand to hear it again.”

My grin widens, chest tightening with that familiar, all-consuming need I’ll never shake.

God, I love this woman.

That she chose me—that she decided to make me the father of her children, that she stopped running from what we were and picked me—I swear it makes me the luckiest fucking man in the whole world.

And I’ll never let her forget it.

Not tonight. Not ever.

I’ve been watching her work the room, pride swelling with every soft laugh, every smile, every person clearly blown away by her photographs.

But the second I see the slick-haired bastard in the blue suit step out of the pack, notebook in hand, I know trouble’s coming.

He’s got that smug, sharp glint in his eyes—the kind that doesn’t come here to admire. It comes to poke, prod, and tear down.

“A. Ram? Or is it, Mrs. Falco,” he says, cutting across her conversation with a collector. “Wait, I know, I should say Andrea Ramirez, daughter of Andres and Ellie Ramirez?”

Andy stiffens at my side. I squeeze her waist in warning.

The man smiles thinly, flipping his notebook open.

“I’m with the Times. Lovely collection. Striking, even. But tell me—how does a woman from such a powerful dynasty manage to break into a scene as competitive as fine art photography?”

Andy blinks. “I?—”