Chapter 2 - THE SECRET BEHIND OUR BROKEN MARRIAGE
By the time we left the hospital, the winter sky hung gray above Chicago’s skyline.
Dorian insisted on driving.
I insisted that he take me to my apartment.
He looked surprised.
“My penthouse has everything you need.”
“So does my apartment.”
“Alina—”
“It’s my home now.”
He studied me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
Something about that simple surrender unsettled me more than his usual commands.
My apartment occupied the fourth floor of an aging brick building near Lincoln Square.
The kitchen faucet leaked.
The elevator made suspicious noises.
My neighbor, Mrs. Whitcomb, played jazz records at inappropriate hours and insisted that everyone needed more homemade soup.
There were no security cameras in the hallway.
No marble staircases.
No armed guards.
I loved it.
Dorian stood in my tiny living room, looking painfully out of place beneath the inexpensive ceiling light.
He had probably spent more on his wristwatch than the entire apartment was worth.
“Sit down,” I said.
He sat.
I remained standing.
“You said you owed me the truth.”
“Yes.”
“Then start talking.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“Six months ago, someone inside my organization began sharing information with the Valenti family.”
I knew the name.
The Valentis controlled several transportation routes outside Chicago and had spent years competing with Dorian’s father.
“They wanted access to my shipping records,” he continued. “Some of those records connect legitimate operations to businesses that were never legitimate.”
“You mean criminal shipments.”
“Yes.”
I appreciated that he didn’t pretend otherwise.
“I refused their demands. Two days later, someone sent me photographs of you.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of photographs?”
“You leaving your office. Buying groceries. Having lunch with your friend Natalie.”
He reached into his jacket and removed an envelope.
Inside were printed photographs.
Me crossing a sidewalk.
Me unlocking my car.
Me sitting outside a coffee shop.
One showed me sleeping on our bedroom balcony.
My blood turned cold.
“That was inside our home.”
“Yes.”
I looked up.
“Who took it?”
“I didn’t know then.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
He lowered his eyes.
“No.”
I threw the envelope onto the table.
“Why?”
“Because the message said the next photographs would be taken after you disappeared.”
The apartment seemed suddenly smaller.
I hugged my arms around myself.
Dorian continued.
“I increased security. Changed routes. Replaced staff. But every adjustment I made was reported back to them.”
“So you decided to divorce me?”
“I decided to make them believe you no longer mattered to me.”
I stared at him.
He spoke carefully now, like a man walking across thin ice.
“I thought if our marriage looked broken, if everyone believed I’d stopped loving you, they’d eventually stop seeing you as leverage.”
“You could have warned me.”
“I was afraid anyone you told might be compromised.”
“You could have trusted me.”
His silence answered that.
I felt anger rise through the fear.
“For six months, I thought I was losing my mind. You stopped touching me. You avoided my eyes. You moved into the guest room.”
“I know.”
“I asked you if there was another woman.”
His face tightened.
“I remember.”
“You let me believe there was.”
“I thought that would make the separation believable.”
I laughed.
It sounded ugly.
“You thought destroying me emotionally was protection?”
“No,” he said. “I convinced myself it was.”
“And the divorce?”
He looked at me.
“I intended to sign it.”
That surprised me.
His voice was rough.
“I planned to give you a legal separation from everything attached to my name. I thought it would buy me time to expose whoever was responsible.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
He didn’t answer.
I shook my head.
“That’s the problem, Dorian. You made every decision for both of us.”
He stood.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You decided how much fear I could handle. How much pain I should tolerate. Whether I deserved the truth.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
“And now I’m pregnant with your child.”
He flinched.
“I never wanted any of this for you.”
“But you chose it for me anyway.”
He looked utterly defeated.
“I did.”
Silence settled between us.
Finally, I asked, “Is the threat over?”
He hesitated.
And I knew.
“No,” I whispered.
Dorian stepped closer.
“I’ve narrowed down the leak. I believe I can end this soon.”
“Who is it?”
His jaw tightened.
“I think it’s Marcus.”
I stopped breathing.
Marcus Cross.
Dorian’s cousin.
His closest friend.
The man who had stood beside him at our wedding.
The man who called me his little sister.
“No.”
“Alina—”
“Marcus wouldn’t.”
“I hope you’re right.”
My phone buzzed.
We both looked down.
An unknown number had sent a photograph.
It showed me outside the hospital, one hand resting against my stomach.
Beneath it was a message.
Congratulations, Mrs. Cross. Tell your husband he has forty-eight hours to deliver the shipping records. Otherwise, his child will never see the world.
Dorian read it over my shoulder.
His face went perfectly still.
And in that moment, I understood something terrible.
May you like
The divorce had never made me safe.
It had only taught our enemies exactly how frightened Dorian was of losing me.
