Page 45 of Porcelain Vows

“It’s done,” he says immediately. “To anyone who asks, you were at dinner with the Mexican attaché when it happened. Three witnesses will confirm if needed.”

“And the body?”

“Being processed now. The family’s been notified. Sofia is flying in from Monaco.”

Sofia. The daughter I left at the altar. The woman whose hatred started this chain of events. Of course she’s coming home, now that daddy’s gone.

“Watch her,” I tell him. “She’s smarter than her father.”

“Already on it. And Aleksei…” He hesitates. “Novikov’s people will suspect.”

“Let them. They can’t prove anything.”

“They don’t need proof to start a war.”

I toss the bloodied hand wraps into the trash. “Then we prepare for war.”

The call ends. I stand in the center of my private gym, surrounded by equipment worth more than most people’s homes. Machines designed to push the human body to its limits. To create the illusion of control.

I head to the shower, stripping off sweat-soaked clothes as I go. The water hits my skin, scalding hot, washing away the physical evidence of my exertion. It does nothing for the weight in my chest.

Novikov knew about Bobik. Someone close to me betrayed that secret. Someone I trust.

The list is short: Diana. Vasya. Sasha. Dr. Malhotra.

And Stella.

No. Not Stella. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

But the doubt lingers as I dress in fresh clothes. Black track pants. Gray T-shirt. Bare feet against the cool floor. Casual attire for a man who committed murder hours ago.

I leave the gym, heading toward the Left Wing where Stella has been staying. The manor feels emptier than usual as my footsteps echo in the long corridor that connects the two buildings. The staff have been given the night off— fewer witnesses to my state of mind, fewer eyes to notice if something’s wrong.

I knock on Stella’s door. No answer.

I knock again, harder this time. “Stella?”

Silence.

What the fuck?

I shove the door open and look inside. The room is dim, curtains pulled shut. Stella lies on the bed, still dressed in theloose cotton dress she wore this morning. Her eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling.

She doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

I move closer, studying her face for signs of distress. Her expression is blank, eyes vacant. The only sign of life is the slight rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

I sit on the edge of the bed. “Stella.”

Nothing.

My gaze drops to her swollen belly, the curve pronounced beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Our child. Due any day, according to Dr. Malhotra.

My daughter.

I place my hand gently on her stomach, feeling for movement. “Is the baby—?”

She pushes my hand away, the first sign of awareness since I entered the room.

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