Chapter 1 - The Scraps on the Counter
Iris held her breath, her fingers clutching the edge of the weathered wooden counter so hard her knuckles turned chalk white. The air between them tasted like iron and crushed eucalyptus leaves. Nikolai Voss did not flinch, nor did he pull his hand away. He was a man who moved with the lethal, methodical grace of a predator who owned every room he stepped into. Standing over six feet tall in a bespoke charcoal Italian suit, his broad shoulders practically blocked the warm afternoon light filtering through the front windows of Bloom & Stem.
His scarred thumb slid across the smooth thermal paper. He picked up one scrap, then another, then a third. To an untrained eye, they looked like meaningless discarded ribbons or inventory tags, but Nikolai had spent twelve years dissecting hidden codes, covert ledgers, and tactical plans. His sharp, steel-gray eyes caught the distinctive dark gradient of medical imaging. He flipped the largest fragment over.
On the bottom edge, printed in stark black digital font, sat three unmistakable letters: WKS. Next to it was a fragmented number: 6.
Beside that fragment lay another piece with a partial name: BEAUMONT, I...
Nikolai’s breath caught. The easy charm and lingering warmth that had momentarily softened his razor-sharp jawline vanished, replaced by an expression so terrifyingly intense that Iris instinctively took a step back toward the cold storage door. The bell above the shop entrance was silent, but inside her chest, an alarm was screaming.
"Nikolai, leave it," Iris whispered, her voice trembling despite her desperate attempt to sound like an indifferent shopkeeper. "It’s trash. I’m clearing the counter. Please, just take your receipt and send your driver for the bridal bouquet in the morning."
He didn't obey. Instead, he laid the three torn pieces flat against the varnished wood and began sliding them together like an unsolved puzzle. His fingers were steady, deliberate, and impossibly gentle for a man whose name made governors sweat and syndicate rivals flee the city. He slid a curved black-and-white shape next to the measurement text. A crescent-shaped shadow emerged—a tiny, flickering gestational sac no larger than a grain of rice.
Six weeks.
Exactly forty-two days.
Forty-two days ago, rain had battered this exact street while thunder rattled these glass panes. Forty-two days ago, he had walked into this shop bleeding from a minor graze after an ambush, seeking nothing more than the scent of fresh earth to ground his chaotic mind. He had stayed until sunrise, finding peace in the arms of a quiet, beautiful florist who asked for nothing, judged nothing, and gave him the only night of pure, unadulterated human warmth he had experienced in a decade.
Nikolai slowly lifted his gaze. The dark gray of his eyes burned with an overwhelming mixture of realization, grief, and unbridled fury. "You went to a clinic today."
"It has nothing to do with you," Iris lied, her chin lifting in defiance, though a stray tear betrayed her, rolling silently down her cheek. "You have an empire to run. You have a wedding tomorrow at Saint Jude’s Cathedral. The entire city is waiting to watch you marry Celeste Renard. Don't play this game with me."
"Do not lie to me, Iris," Nikolai growled, his voice dropping an octave, rumbling through the floorboards like distant thunder. He leaned forward, bracing his palms on either side of the shredded paper. "Count the weeks. Count the nights. You think I am blind? You cut this apart with your shears because you found out who I was. Because of the morning papers."
"I cut it apart because I am handling my life!" she cried out, her composure finally shattering into pieces just like the photograph between them. "I don't belong in your world, Nikolai! I sell gardenias and baby's breath! I don't survive car bombs, newspaper headlines, and arranged dynastic marriages! You came in here six weeks ago like an ordinary man who was sad and wet from the rain, and I let myself believe you were real. But you aren't real. You are Nikolai Voss. And tomorrow, you belong to someone else."
Nikolai reached out and seized her wrist. His touch wasn't painful, but it was an unbreakable iron band, warm and electric against her skin. "I was never hers, Iris. Not for one second."
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"The contracts are signed," Iris choked out, pulling against his grip. "Camille showed me the front page. Your syndicate made a pact with the Renard family. If you break it, a war starts. Isn't that what men like you live by? Blood and honor?"
Nikolai looked down at the tiny sonogram fragment under his left palm. His jaw clenched until a tendon jumped along his neck. "Honor means nothing if I leave my own blood behind. You are carrying my child."
