Chapter 3 - THE COUSIN UNDER SUSPICION
I didn’t sleep that night.
Dorian wanted me back at the penthouse.
I refused.
He wanted four security men stationed outside my apartment.
I allowed two.
He wanted to disconnect my phone, change my number, and move me to a private medical facility until he found whoever had sent the threat.
That was where I finally lost my temper.
“You are not putting me in a hospital because somebody sent a text message!”
“Someone has been watching you.”
“Then find out who!”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“By controlling everything I do?”
His eyes flashed.
“By keeping you alive.”
The words struck hard enough to silence me.
We stood in my kitchen at one in the morning, separated by three feet of scratched linoleum and six months of heartbreak.
I could see the exhaustion in his face.
The dark shadows beneath his eyes.
The tension in his shoulders.
But I wasn’t ready to offer comfort.
Not when he had spent half a year withholding the truth.
“I need you to understand something,” I said.
He waited.
“If you ever use this baby as an excuse to control my life, you will lose us both.”
Pain crossed his expression.
“I don’t want to lose either of you.”
“Then stop treating me like something you own.”
His gaze dropped.
After a moment, he nodded.
“All right.”
I watched him reach for his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Ethan. I’ll ask him to review the security arrangements with you.”
I blinked.
“You’re asking?”
“Yes.”
It shouldn’t have felt revolutionary.
But it did.
The following morning, Marcus Cross arrived carrying two paper bags of breakfast.
I hadn’t invited him.
He appeared at my door shortly after nine, smiling beneath the hallway’s flickering light.
“There she is,” he said. “My favorite almost-ex-sister-in-law.”
I didn’t smile.
Marcus noticed immediately.
“Bad joke?”
“Terrible.”
He lifted the bags.
“Cinnamon rolls from that bakery you love?”
I stepped aside.
Marcus was thirty-six, two years younger than Dorian, with sandy hair, an easy smile, and none of his cousin’s intimidating stillness.
People underestimated him.
That was partly why he’d become indispensable to the Cross organization.
He handled negotiations, reconciled business disputes, and remembered everyone’s birthdays.
He was also the only member of Dorian’s family who had called me regularly during our separation.
He placed the breakfast on the counter.
“I heard yesterday was rough.”
I folded my arms.
“Who told you?”
“Dorian.”
I studied him.
“Did he tell you about the baby?”
Marcus’s expression changed.
His smile disappeared.
“He told me this morning.”
I looked at him carefully.
“Then why did you send me a message yesterday congratulating me?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“You sent a text. You said you hoped yesterday wasn’t all bad news.”
His brow furrowed.
“Because I knew about the divorce appointment.”
I watched his reaction.
No hesitation.
No panic.
Just confusion.
I wanted to believe it.
“Marcus, I need to ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“Are you working with the Valentis?”
The color drained from his face.
For several seconds, he didn’t speak.
Then he set down his coffee.
“Dorian told you?”
“He thinks you’re involved.”
Marcus looked away.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
“Of course he does.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then why does he suspect you?”
Marcus leaned against the counter.
“Because somebody has been using my credentials.”
My heart jumped.
“What?”
“Three weeks ago, Dorian confronted me about missing shipping documents. The system showed they’d been accessed with my account. I told him I hadn’t touched them.”
“Did he believe you?”
“He didn’t say.”
Marcus rubbed his face.
“I’ve been trying to figure out who’s framing me. Every time I get close, another piece of evidence points right back at me.”
“Who has access to your account?”
“Technically, only me and the company’s systems administrator.”
“Who oversees the administrator?”
Marcus looked at me.
And his expression darkened.
“Victor Hale.”
The name made my stomach tighten.
Victor had worked for Dorian’s father for nearly thirty years.
He was the closest thing Dorian had to an uncle.
After Dorian’s father died, Victor helped him consolidate the family businesses.
He attended Christmas dinners.
He toasted our wedding.
Once, when my father was hospitalized, Victor had quietly arranged for flowers to be delivered every day for a week.
“Victor?” I whispered.
Marcus nodded.
“I don’t have proof yet.”
“Does Dorian know?”
“He refuses to hear it.”
“Why?”
“Because Victor practically raised him.”
That much was true.
Dorian’s mother had died when he was twelve.
His father had been emotionally distant, more interested in expanding his empire than raising his son.
Victor had taught Dorian to drive.
To negotiate.
To recognize danger.
Dorian trusted very few people.
Victor was one of them.
Marcus looked toward the window.
“I think Victor’s been waiting for an opportunity to take control of the family business. Dorian’s been trying to clean things up for years. Victor hates it.”
A cold sensation moved through me.
“Then why would Victor threaten me?”
Marcus’s face softened.
“Because hurting you is the easiest way to hurt Dorian.”
That afternoon, I met Natalie Pierce at a small café two blocks from my apartment.
Natalie was my best friend, a real-estate attorney with blunt opinions and an impressive collection of uncomfortable shoes.
Dorian’s security men waited near the entrance.
Natalie watched them over her coffee.
“Your almost-ex-husband has never understood subtlety.”
I smiled weakly.
“He’s trying.”
“He should try therapy.”
I laughed.
Then immediately stopped because my stomach rebelled.
Natalie pushed a glass of water toward me.
“Okay. Start from the beginning.”
So I told her.
The hospital.
The pregnancy.
The threats.
The photographs.
Dorian’s confession.
By the time I finished, Natalie had stopped touching her coffee.
“Alina,” she said carefully, “you understand that being frightened for your safety doesn’t excuse what he did?”
“I know.”
“He let you believe he didn’t love you.”
“I know.”
“And now that you’re pregnant, he’s suddenly telling you everything?”
“He says he was trying to protect me.”
Natalie leaned forward.
“Protection without consent can become another kind of prison.”
The words settled heavily inside me.
I stared at the condensation running down my glass.
“I still love him.”
“I know.”
“That makes me feel stupid.”
“It doesn’t make you stupid. It makes the decision harder.”
My eyes filled.
“I used to think loving someone meant I could survive anything they did.”
Natalie shook her head.
“Loving someone doesn’t mean you have to survive the same hurt twice.”
We sat quietly for a while.
Then she asked, “What do you want?”
The question stunned me.
For months, everyone had been asking what Dorian wanted.
What his enemies wanted.
What the lawyers wanted.
Nobody had asked me.
I rested a hand against my still-flat stomach.
“I want this baby to grow up without being afraid.”
Natalie nodded.
“And?”
“I want to be able to trust the father.”
“And?”
My throat tightened.
“I want Dorian to come home because he wants to be there. Not because somebody threatened us.”
May you like
Natalie reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Then make him prove he can.”
