The double doors aren’t completely closed—a sliver of light spills onto the floor. And through that crack seeps a name I know.
“Walsh isn’t a concern.” Stefan’s voice is ice-cold, final.
“And how the f**k do you know that?” Taras sounds incredulous. “Christ, Stef. Tell me you haven’t gone off-script already. We agreed—”
Their voices keep going, but my heart has stopped. The world is frozen.
Walsh.
I briefly consider the possibility that Stefan is talking about a different Walsh, not the one who stole my life’s work, is poaching my clients, and currently making my life a living hell.
But it can’t be a coincidence.
Nothing can be a coincidence.
Everything clicks into place with stomach-turning clarity—why Stefan suddenly appeared in my life, why he’s so obsessed with having a baby,
