Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Manhattan
In Manhattan, the disappearance of Elena Volkov sent shockwaves through a world that operated on clockwork precision.
Damen Volkov did not panic; panic was an inefficiency he purged from his system decades ago. But as he stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse study—holding a crystal tumbler of scotch that remained untouched—his dark eyes were narrowed into dangerous slits.
Victoria Hale sat on the edge of the leather sofa, nervously twisting a gold bracelet around her wrist. Her makeup was slightly faded, and the triumphant flush of their afternoon liaison had been replaced by a creeping, jittery dread.
“She didn't say anything, Damen,” Victoria murmured, her voice trembling slightly. “Marcus said she came up, looked down the hall, and left without a word. But... she didn't come back to Boston. Her credit cards haven't been used. Her phone was left on the kitchen island.”
Damen turned slowly. His tailoring was immaculate, every button in place, but the aura radiating from him was predatory. “She saw us.”
“She couldn't have—we were just—”
“Marcus knows something,” Damen cut her off, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, which made it infinitely more terrifying. “And you are talking too much, Victoria. Pack your things and leave.”
“Damen, wait—we agreed that—”
“We agreed on nothing,” Damen interrupted, his gaze locking onto her with a frost so deep it made her flinch. “If Elena is gone, it is because your carelessness invited her into a space where she did not belong. Get out.”
As the front door clicked shut behind Victoria, Damen picked up his phone and dialed a private, encrypted number.
“Marcus,” Damen said the instant the line connected.
“Mr. Volkov.”
“Where is my wife?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line—a silence that felt heavy with a loyalty divided between the man who paid his salary and the woman who had looked at him with hollow, broken eyes in the foyer.
“I don't know where she went, sir,” Marcus replied steadily.
“You helped her leave.”
“I watched her walk to the elevator. She told me she was leaving because you were busy. I assumed you knew what you were doing, Mr. Volkov.” A pause, then Marcus added softly, “You might want to check the floor by your office corridor, sir. Near the baseboard.”
Damen frowned. He walked out of the study, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the runner. He knelt where Marcus had indicated, near the shadow of a mahogany console table.
Lying face down on the dark wood was a small, creased piece of glossy paper.
Damen picked it up. His fingers brushed the surface, turning it over.
It was an ultrasound scan. Date: Yesterday. Clinic: Boston Maternal Care Associates. Patient Name: Elena Volkov. Gestational Age: 8 Weeks.
And right beside the main image, a smaller, secondary window pointed clearly to a second gestational sac.
Twins.
The world around Damen Volkov didn't just stop; it fractured into a million jagged, bleeding pieces. The scotch glass slipped from his memory, though he was holding nothing. His breath caught in his chest, a sharp, suffocating pain that radiated outward from his ribs.
Twins.
His child. His children. Elena had walked into his office, carrying the impossible future he had secretly yearned for behind his armor of ice, ready to give it to him—and she had found him kissing another woman.
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A low, animal sound escaped Damen's throat. The cold, untouchable billionaire vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by a primal, terrifying fury that could level cities. He didn't care about Victoria. He didn't care about the multi-billion-dollar acquisition closing on Wall Street tomorrow.
He cared about one thing only: Finding his wife before the winter storms swallowed her whole.
