Nine Months of Deception: The CEO's Hidden Heir

Chapter 6

The cold Atlantic wind hit my face, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of salt air, seaweed, and damp wood.

I hugged myself, burying my hands in the pockets of the thick, knitted wool cardigan I'd bought at a thrift store, and took a deep breath.

The air in Blackwood was dense and pure, so different from the asphalt and smog of Manhattan that it almost made me dizzy.

Three weeks had passed since I'd stepped off that bus, shivering with cold and fear.

Three weeks in which I'd let the efficient and docile Gianna Rossi die, becoming simply Anna, a city girl looking for a new beginning by the sea.

There were no more pristine gray suits, no more thick-framed glasses, no more tight buns that gave me headaches.

My dark hair now fell freely and wildly over my shoulders, wavy from the constant humidity of the ocean.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door with its beveled glass, and the chime of a golden bell announced my arrival.

The interior of The lighthouse, the only café in town that opened before dawn, greeted me with a wave of welcoming warmth, the aroma of freshly roasted coffee, and blueberry pie.

"You're five minutes late, city girl," a husky but warm voice called from behind the bar.

Martha, the owner, was a woman in her sixties with gray hair tied back in a loose braid and hands calloused from years of hard work.

From the first day I walked into her café, soaking wet and looking for a job ad in the local newspaper, she had looked at me with those blue eyes that seemed to read my soul.

She didn't ask any questions about my lack of references or why I was paying the rent for my small room above the café with crumpled bills. She simply gave me an apron and showed me how to use the old espresso machine.

“I’m sorry, Martha. The sea breeze distracted me,” I replied, managing a smile that, for the first time in a long time, felt genuine.

I went to the back, hung up my coat, and tied my black apron around my waist.

As I did, my hands instinctively stopped on my stomach. It was still flat under the loose clothing, but the feeling of heaviness and the subtle changes in my body were undeniable. A wave of morning sickness threatened to rise in my throat, a constant reminder of the tiny life growing inside me.

I closed my eyes, breathed in the vanilla and cinnamon scent that wafted through the kitchen, and the discomfort slowly receded.

“Is everything all right back there?” Martha asked, poking her head around the doorway, her brow slightly furrowed. “You look a little pale, dear. If you need to sit down…”

“I’m perfectly fine, really. I just need some cold water,” I half-lie, going to the sink to pour myself a glass.

The morning unfolded in a comforting routine of steaming cups, scrambled eggs, and boisterous conversations with the local fishermen who came for breakfast before heading out to sea.

There was a raw, honest beauty to Blackwood. The people here didn't worry about Wall Street stocks or multi-million-dollar mergers.

They were people with calloused hands and easy laughs, a world away from the tailored-suited predators I was used to dealing with.

However, when the clock struck two and the place emptied, the silence ensnared me.

I leaned against the counter to wipe the wooden surface, and my treacherous, exhausted mind drifted back to the fiftieth floor of the Volkov Tower. I tried to block it out, to focus on the sound of the waves crashing against the breakwater in the distance, but it was useless. The body's memory is far more stubborn than reason.

My fingers released the tea towel as a shiver ran down my neck.

Suddenly, I no longer smelled of salt and coffee, but of sandalwood and expensive single malt Scotch whisky.

I could feel the ghost of Sebastian's hands on my skin. Large, dominant hands that knew exactly how to touch me to break down every one of my defenses.

I swallowed, feeling a familiar and shameful heat build in my lower abdomen.

I remembered the intensity of his eyes locking onto mine that stormy night, the way he demanded everything from me, and how, in my stupidity and blind infatuation, I gave it all to him without reservation. It had been heaven and hell in a single instant.

The pleasure of knowing I was desired by the only man I loved, followed immediately by the devastation of his rejection at dawn.

“Don’t think about him,” I whispered aloud to myself, gripping the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white. “He’s an ice monster. He doesn’t care about you.”

I forced myself to open my eyes and look at my reflection in the windowpane. I was no longer his property. I was a free woman and, above all, I was going to be a mother. The fear that had paralyzed me in New York was transforming day by day into a fierce instinct—a new fire that gave me the strength to move forward.

If he were to discover my whereabouts, I knew he would use all his power and his lethal seduction to break me.

That's why I couldn't allow myself to falter. I couldn't allow the ridiculous physical need I still felt for him to cloud my judgment.

The ringing of the doorbell abruptly pulled me from my thoughts.

I jumped, my heart pounding violently in my ribs.

For a second of pure, irrational panic, I expected to see a tall figure, clad in a black suit, filling the doorway with his suffocating presence. But it was only old Mr. Miller, the town postman, brushing the raindrops off his hat.

"Drowned afternoon, Anna," the old man remarked with a kind smile, placing a bundle of mail on the nearest table. "Autumn is showing its teeth early this year."

“Yes, it looks like another storm is coming,” I replied, letting out the breath I’d ​​been holding and forcing my heart to return to a normal rhythm.

I poured him a complimentary hot coffee to go, waving him off as I disappeared back into the gray mist of the street.

I gathered the stack of letters and catalogs, leaving them by the register.

Outside, the sky was darkening rapidly, threatening to unleash a downpour at any moment.

I hugged myself again, rubbing my arms to fight off a chill that seemed to be coming more from within than without.

I was safe. I was hidden away in the most forgotten corner of the world, protected by a ghost town and a perpetual storm. But as I watched the shadows lengthen across the empty streets of Blackwood, a deep, dark unease settled in my chest. I knew Sebastian. I knew what happened to anyone who dared to wound his pride and challenge his control.

The devil was wounded. And wounded devils don't forgive; they simply hunt you down until they find you.