Then, suddenly, she bolts from her chair.
The room doesn’t react—but I do.
I move instantly.
She disappears into the hallway, and I follow.
She turns a corner, and when I reach her, she’s in the nearest bathroom, gripping the sink with white-knuckled fingers, her head bowed forward.
She’s sick. Again.
I don’t hesitate.
I move beside her, steady, immovable. My hand slides over her back, firm but careful, feeling the tremble in her shoulders. She tenses at first, but then she exhales, and some of that fight drains from her.
When she finally leans away, breathless, too stubborn for her own good, she mutters, "I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me."
My fingers tighten against her skin.
"You’re not fine." My voice is unrelenting, absolute. "And you’re not going to Darren if you can’t stay out of a bathroom for more than ten minutes.”
Her eyes flick to mine, defiant, vulnerable, so goddamn strong it makes my chest ache.
"I’m fine, really," she insists. "You don’t need to babysit me."
I stand, grab the glass from the counter, fill it, and hand it to her.
"You’re not fine," I repeat, my tone leaving no room for argument. "And I’ll look after you however I damn well please."
She glares.
But she takes the water.
A few moments pass before Maxim’s voice calls from the hall.
"Ivan. We need to finalize these plans."
I don’t move. My attention stays locked on Cora. “It can wait,” I yell back.
She’s watching me carefully, her fingers wrapped around the glass but not drinking yet.
"I’ve made legal arrangements," I tell her, my voice dropping lower. "If I die during this final battle, my estate—everything I own—goes to you."
Her breath catches.
"Ivan—"
"You’ll be able to look after the child," I continue, ignoring the way my chest tightens at the thought of not being here.
Her fingers tighten around the glass. "I never asked for that."
I nod. "I know."
Then, I kiss her.
The moment our lips meet, the world outside ceases to exist.
No war. No plans. No cartel waiting to burn everything down.