Page 138 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

The headline hits me like a sucker punch, and I freeze.

What the fuck?

Photos flash across the screen. Me leaving the club with Mikhail Orlov’s daughter.

Me laughing with Nikolai outside the club.

Jenna and Cassie, or whatever their names are, draped across my lap at a bar.

Shots so perfectly timed they look like a goddamn tabloid wet dream.

The article spins the whole story.

Playboy prince. Russian mob ties.

Abandons pregnant girlfriend in New York.

Eva Costa's byline stares back at me like a slap in the face.

Ice floods my veins.

My stomach churns.

Every fear Sophie had, every doubt she tried so hard to bury, I just handed to the world on a silver fucking platter.

I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white.

I’m done hiding. Done running. It’s time to go home.

Time to fight for her.

32

SOPHIE

The world tilts under my feet.

I stare down at my phone, my hands numb as the headline blazes across the screen.

He’s Not at War with the Bratva. He’s Colluding with Them.

Bullshit. It’s all bullshit.

Around me, the boardroom hums with background buzz. My father droning about investor confidence, Denver flipping through slides like we’re not all on the verge of a goddamn implosion.

I’m supposed to care. I’m supposed to focus.

Instead, all I can see are the photos.

Mikhail Orlov's daughter.

The girls from the café.

Me.

It’s all there, splashed across every gossip site, every financial page, every damn tabloid that thrives off blood in the water.

The perfect story.

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