Page 22 of Slightly Married
Stella’s perfume reached me before I’d fully boarded the plane. She sat in her usual place, scrolling through her phone, designer handbag positioned beside her. At my approach, she looked up with a smile, patting the adjacent seat with manicured fingers.
“Come sit,” she said warmly. “I was thinking we could look over venues for the wedding during the flight.”
“Later,” I replied, moving past her. “I’ll be taking calls in the private cabin. No disturbances.”
Alexei positioned himself near the main cabin entrance as I headed directly to the bedroom in the rear. Once inside, I secured the door and sat on the edge of the bed, dialing Kayla’s number.
“It was always a fifty-fifty chance,” she said after answering, her tone defensive.
“What’s the next step?” I asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
“The doctor recommends we try again when I ovulate in a few weeks. Or I guess we can miss that one since you’re traveling.”
“I’ll be there.” A pause stretched between us. “How are you feeling?”
“Disappointed,” she admitted. “I’d hoped it would work the first time.”
I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see me. “Same here. It’s a setback in our timeline.”
“Right. The timeline.” There was something in her tone I couldn’t identify. “Anyway, the doctor says my hormone levels look good. Our odds should be better next cycle.”
“Good.”
“I have to go. I’ve got work.”
Work?The word registered as incongruous. What work? The agreement ensured her complete financial security. Before I could formulate the question, the connection ended.
I stared at the silent phone, experiencing an unusual sense of incompleteness. There had been more to say, though precisely what eluded me.
Inquire about her emotional state? Question this mysterious employment? Offer reassurance?
The opportunity had passed. She’d ended the conversation, clearly requiring neither my input nor comfort.
I reclined against the pillows, in no rush to join Stella in the main cabin. The ceiling offered no answers to questions I hadn’t properly formed.
The private investigator’s voice droned on, each word grating against my already frayed patience. I maintained my composure through sheer discipline, seated behind a long desk in OlympusMotors’ conference room while Aristides and Dimitrios flanked me.
“As you can see from this enhanced footage,” the investigator continued, gesturing to grainy marina surveillance images revealing nothing we hadn’t already examined a dozen times.
Ten months. Almost an entire year since Theo’s blood had pooled on my yacht deck, since the bullet had torn through my side, and all we had to show for it was recycled footage and speculative theories.
“I’m also exploring a potential connection to Mr. Pavlou’s rare automobile collection,” he added, straightening his tie with unearned confidence.
I exchanged a glance with Aristides, whose nostril flare conveyed his identical assessment of this incompetence. The police had dismissed the car collection angle within the first week of investigation.
The investigator cleared his throat, shuffling through his papers. “There’s something else I’ve uncovered recently. A private account under a shell company linked to Mr. Pavlou.”
My attention sharpened despite my skepticism. “The police vetted all his financials.”
“This was well-hidden,” the investigator replied, sliding a document across the table. “Registered in the Cayman Islands under a corporate alias. Regular cash deposits followed by transfers to what appears to be a private gambling establishment in Mykonos.”
I studied the transactions, my muscles bunching uncomfortably between my shoulders. “This can’t be right. Theo didn’t gamble.”
“The evidence suggests—”
“I knew Theo for thirty-five years,” I cut him off. “He wouldn’t touch a slot machine, let alone underground gambling.”
Dimitrios leaned forward, examining the papers. “Could someone have been using his identity? Or blackmailing him?”
