Chapter 6

Alexander grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the door.

"We don't have time for this," he said. "Whoever sent that message knows where you live. Knows where we are. Right now."

I yanked my arm back. "And I'm supposed to trust you instead?"

"You're supposed to survive. You can hate me afterward."

He was already out the door, coat forgotten, rain soaking through his white shirt. I could see the outline of his shoulders, the tension in his back, the way he kept scanning the hallway like he expected someone to jump out.

I grabbed my keys.

I followed.

Because as much as I hated him — as much as I didn't trust him — he was right.

Someone had planned this.

And I was standing in the middle of it, three heartbeats deep, with no idea which way was up.

---

The parking lot behind my building was empty.

Too empty.

Alexander's car was a black SUV that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. He unlocked it with a fob, opened the passenger door, and all but pushed me inside.

"Buckle it," he said.

"The seatbelt or the baby?"

"Both."

He slammed the door and got in on the driver's side. The engine purred to life — quiet, powerful, nothing like my clunker that sounded like a dying lawnmower.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Somewhere safe."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting right now."

He pulled out of the lot too fast. The tires squealed. I grabbed the door handle and pressed my other hand against my belly — three heartbeats, three lives, please don't let me throw up.

"Slow down," I said.

"No."

"Alexander —"

"There's a car behind us. Black sedan. Been there since we left your building."

I turned around.

A black sedan. No headlights. Keeping exactly three car lengths behind us.

"How long?" I whispered.

"Since we walked out your door."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Your stepmother?"

"Or your father. Or both. At this point, I don't know who's worse."

He took a sharp left. The sedan followed.

He took a right. The sedan followed.

He drove into a tunnel — dark, narrow, the kind of place where bad things happened in movies — and killed the headlights.

"Hold on," he said.

"To what?"

"Me."

He reached across the console and grabbed my hand. His fingers laced through mine. Warm. Steady. The only thing in the dark that felt real.

The sedan's headlights appeared behind us.

Alexander accelerated.

---

We lost them three turns later.

Or maybe they let us go. I couldn't tell anymore. Everything felt like a game I didn't know the rules to.

Alexander pulled into an underground garage — private, keycard access, the kind of place where rich people hid their second cars. He killed the engine.

Neither of us moved.

His hand was still holding mine.

"We need to talk about your stepmother," I said quietly.

He let go of my hand. Rubbed his face with both palms. When he looked at me again, he looked old. Tired. Broken in ways that had nothing to do with me.

"Elena married my father when I was twelve," he said. "My mother had been dead for three years. My father was... lost. She seemed kind at first. Brought me gifts. Told me she loved me."

"What changed?"

"Nothing. That was the problem." His jaw tightened. "She loved me too much. She wanted me to call her 'Mom.' She wanted to adopt me. She wanted to erase my mother completely."

I remembered what he'd said before. The woman who has hated me since I was twelve.

"You rejected her."

"I told her she would never be my mother. I was fourteen. I was angry. I was grieving." He looked away. "She never forgave me."

"So she's been waiting. Watching. Looking for a way to hurt you."

"And now she's found it." He looked at my belly. "You. Triplets. The heirs my mother wanted. If Elena can control the pregnancy — or destroy it — she wins."

I covered my belly with both hands. Protective. Fierce.

"She's not touching them."

"That's not a promise you can make."

"Then we make it." I met his eyes. "Together."

He stared at me.

For a long moment, he didn't speak. Didn't breathe. Just looked at me like I was something he'd never seen before.

"You sound like her," he whispered.

"Like who?"

"My mother." He reached out — slowly, like he was asking permission — and touched my hair. Just one strand. Just the tips of his fingers. "She used to say the same thing. Together. We're stronger together."

My throat tightened.

"Alexander —"

The window shattered.

---

I screamed.

Alexander threw himself over me — his body a shield, his arms wrapped around my head, his weight pressing me into the seat.

Glass rained down on both of us.

"What was that?!" I gasped.

He didn't answer. He was already reaching into the glove compartment, pulling out something black and metallic.

A gun.

"Is that —"

"Stay down."

Another crack. Another window shattered. The back windshield this time.

Alexander fired twice into the darkness outside.

Then silence.

Then footsteps.

Someone was walking toward the car.

I couldn't see who. I could only hear — heels clicking on concrete. Slow. Deliberate. Unafraid.

A woman's voice cut through the dark.

"Alexander, darling. You forgot to RSVP to dinner."

He lowered the gun.

His face went pale.

"Elena," he said.