Page 53 of The Russian's Arranged Pregnant Bride

God, I wanted to grab his arm, pull him back, tell him not to go to the docks. The words were right there, burning on my tongue, but they stayed trapped behind my teeth like cowards.

Because how could I stop him without revealing everything?

Without admitting that I knew about the ambush before it happened?

Without confessing that I was the reason it was going to happen at all?

So I watched him leave. Watched the door close behind him with a finality that made my chest ache. And the moment he was gone, my heart went into free fall.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but stare at that closed door and pray to a God I didn’t believe in that Drew would come back alive.

Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool air in the apartment. My hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together to keep them still.

What have I done?

The question looped in my head like a death sentence.

I’d given Vance the intel. Given him everything he needed to orchestrate the ambush. And now Drew was walking straight into it, and if he died—if any of them died—it would be because of me.

My fault. My choices. My betrayal.

I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears that threatened to spill over. But they came anyway, hot and bitter, streaming down my cheeks like accusations.

Stop him. Call him. Warn him.

But I couldn’t. Because warning him meant exposing myself. Meant admitting what I’d done. Meant facing Rafael’s wrath, Drew’s fury, the consequences I’d been running from for two years.

I was a coward. A liar. A traitor.

And the worst part? I deserved whatever was coming.

Minutes crawled by like hours. Or maybe they were hours. I couldn’t tell anymore. Time had stopped making sense.

I paced the living room, my heart hammering against my ribs, my stomach churning with nausea that had nothing to do with sickness and everything to do with guilt.

Please come back. Please come back. Please come back.

The mantra played on repeat in my head, desperate and broken.

I stared at my phone, willing it to ring. Willing Drew to call and tell me he was okay, that it was over, that he’d survived.

But it stayed silent.

Mocking me.

My lips were trembling. My voice shook when I whispered into the empty room, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But sorry didn’t fix anything. Sorry didn’t bring people back from the dead. Sorry was just another useless word I threw around to make myself feel better.

My mouth went dry. My chest tightened until I thought my ribs might crack under the pressure.

Deep in my gut, I knew the truth.

If Drew died tonight, I’d never forgive myself.

If he survived and found out what I’d done, he’d kill me.

Either way, I was already dead.