His palm settles against my abdomen, warm through the thin fabric of my blouse. It shouldn’t mean anything—there’s nothing to feel yet, just my regular stomach with a cluster of cells the size of a kidney bean hidden inside.
But the look on his face…
In all our twisted history, I’ve never seen Vincent Akopov look so utterly destroyed. So nakedly vulnerable. Like someone reached inside his chest and ripped away every carefully constructed wall.
“A baby,” he says softly, almost to himself.
“I haven’t decided…” I swallow hard. “I mean, I don’t know if I’m going to—”
My spine stiffens at his commanding tone. “Excuse me?”
“The baby,” he clarifies, a jagged edge creeping into his voice. “My child. You’re keeping it.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
His eyes lock with mine, suddenly
