Page 85 of Under His Control
I cling to that fragile hope, desperation making it shine brighter.
Taking a deep breath, I turn back toward the car. It’s time to return—to face her, to listen, to decide together.
I won’t lose her. I can’t.
Clarity settles within me, stark yet oddly comforting. Love, I realize, is terrifyingly powerful. It changes everything.
But, for her, I’m ready to fight, to bend fate itself.
And if I must choose between legacy and love, perhaps my decision is already made.
CHAPTER 34
TAYLOR
“I’m going to say this once.” My voice shakes from fury, not fear. “Do not speak to me ever again.”
Damas lounges on the leather sofa like a bored panther, ankle crossed over knee, crystal tumbler dangling between manicured fingers.
The pose is casual; the gleam in his ice-blue eyes is anything but. A half inch of twenty-five-year Macallan rocks lazily against cut glass as he watches me pace.
Damas’s mouth tilts in a pitying smile. “And deny you the pleasure of my company? I’m family,?nevestka.You, on the other hand,” his gaze flicks over me like I’m a stray dog that wandered into a Michelin kitchen, “may not be holding that title much longer.”
My pulse jackhammers. “I belong here.?My?name’s on that marriage certificate.”
“For the moment.” He takes a contemplative sip. “But if the rumor is true about not being able to have children, this will allrevert to the bloodline, not to the pretty placeholder he wedded in desperation.”
Heat scorches my cheeks. I grip the back of a chair so hard my knuckles bleach. He doesn’t know I’m pregnant—nobody does—but the venom still lands.
“Rumor.” I spit the word. “Funny how gossip spreads when people with small egos have big mouths.”
His laugh is a low, elegant purr. “We’ll see how big my mouth is when this,” he gestures loosely at the penthouse, “is under my sole control.”
I can practically hear clocks ticking: the inheritance clause, Anatoly’s deadline, my secret miracle fluttering under my ribs.
But first things first—survival.
“Get ou!” I snap.
With that, I storm out of the room, kicking off my shoes with a grunt of anger.
I pivot on bare feet and stalk into our bedroom. The door slams hard enough to rattle the Klimt prints on the hallway wall.
Inside, I yank my weekend bag from the armoire, adrenaline making my hands clumsy. Leggings, two dresses, toothbrush, the giant hoodie I stole from Anatoly’s side of the closet. Each item is thrown into the bag like an exclamation point. Anger. Fear. Anger again.
Out in the living room, Damas hums. I zip the bag, square my shoulders, and march out.
“You’re trespassing, Damas. This isn’t your penthouse. You don’t belong here.”
He just laughs, low and lazy. “Come on, Taylor. You really think you can kick me out of my own brother’s home?”
My nostrils flare. “I believe I just did.”
“Anatoly will never choose a woman over this hotel. And without a baby, well…” He twirls the glass. “Clock’s nearly run out. If he hasn’t impregnated a suitable candidate by now, he’s spectacularly screwed.”
My throat tightens around a hundred unsaid things—like I’m already pregnant, you smug little bastard. The urge to slap him flashes hot. Instead, I sling the bag over my shoulder, stalk past the piano, and yank open the penthouse door.
Behind me, Damas’s velvet voice licks the air. “Do send a change-of-address card.”
