Chapter 1 - The Heartbeat He Didn't Know About
I held the burning ultrasound over the sink and whispered,
“Goodbye, Declan.”
Declan Voss stepped into the kitchen and saw the black-and-white photograph between my fingers.
In the corner was one printed number: 164.
His face changed.
He hadn't known about the baby.
Two hours earlier, I had been lying beneath a thin paper sheet at Northwestern Memorial Hospital while a young technician moved a wand across my stomach and smiled at the monitor.
“There.”
I had turned my head.
At first, I saw nothing that looked like a baby.
Only shadows.
Gray shapes.
A tiny dark space surrounded by grainy white.
Then the technician pointed.
“That little flicker?”
I nodded.
“That’s the heartbeat.”
My throat closed.
There were moments when your entire life divided itself into before and after.
Before that flicker, I had been Elena Marlowe, thirty-one years old, occasionally foolish, frequently stubborn, and deeply in love with a man I had no business loving.
After that flicker, I was someone's mother.
“Six weeks and four days,” the doctor said later. “Everything looks strong.”
Strong.
I held onto that word.
Because almost nothing else in my life felt strong anymore.
Declan had been gone for four days.
That wasn't unusual.
Dating Declan Voss meant learning not to ask ordinary questions.
Where are you going?
Who called?
Why are there two men with guns downstairs?
Why did a city councilman leave your office shaking?
Why was a black SUV following us?
I knew what Declan was.
I had known almost from the beginning.
Everyone in Chicago knew the name Voss.
Some said it with respect.
Others whispered it.
Declan controlled nightclubs, shipping companies, private security firms, construction contracts, restaurants, and several businesses people pretended were not connected to him.
The newspapers called him a businessman.
Federal investigators used different words.
Men who crossed him tended to discover that Chicago was suddenly a very difficult city in which to live.
And yet the Declan I knew made coffee too strong, hated olives, read history books in bed, and once drove forty minutes through a snowstorm because I mentioned I wanted cinnamon rolls.
That was the man I loved.
Or thought I did.
I had left the hospital carrying the ultrasound in a white envelope against my chest.
I imagined telling him that night.
I imagined his silence first.
Declan always went quiet when something mattered.
Then perhaps that slow smile.
His palm covering my stomach.
Maybe fear.
Maybe happiness.
Maybe both.
I bought a tiny pair of gray socks at a pharmacy on Michigan Avenue.
Ridiculous, considering the baby was barely the size of a blueberry.
But I couldn't help myself.
I placed the socks in my purse beside the ultrasound.
I was still smiling when I entered the apartment.
Twenty-eight floors above the city.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Black marble counters.
Warm lamps.
Everything expensive, controlled, immaculate.
Declan's world.
I took off my coat.
The television was already on.
I almost didn't look.
Then I heard his name.
“Breaking tonight, billionaire businessman Declan Voss has confirmed his engagement—”
I froze.
On the screen stood Declan.
Black tuxedo.
Cold, handsome face.
One hand resting at the waist of a blonde woman in a pale blue evening gown.
Savannah Calloway.
I knew her name.
Anyone who understood Chicago's darker circles knew it.
Her father, Graham Calloway, controlled half the private freight moving through the Great Lakes corridor.
The Voss family and the Calloways had hated each other for fifteen years.
Apparently hatred had become engagement.
Savannah smiled at the cameras.
A diamond sparkled on her left hand.
Declan looked straight ahead.
The reporter continued speaking, but the words became meaningless noise.
I stared at the man who had slept beside me eleven nights earlier.
The man who had kissed my forehead before leaving.
The man who had said, “When this is over, we'll go somewhere warm.”
There had been no mention of a wedding.
Certainly not his.
My hand slid into my purse.
I felt the ultrasound envelope.
Something inside me cracked.
I called him.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
I sent one message.
I'M PREGNANT.
The message remained undelivered.
His phone was off.
On television, Savannah turned toward him.
She smiled as if she had already won.
I don't remember walking into the kitchen.
I remember placing the little socks on the counter.
I remember removing the ultrasound.
I remember seeing the tiny flicker frozen forever in black and white.
I remember the doctor saying strong heartbeat.
Then I saw a candle burning beside the roses Declan had sent me three days earlier.
My hand moved before my mind caught up.
The edge of the ultrasound touched the flame.
It curled immediately.
Orange spread across black.
I watched.
I wanted the pain to burn with it.
It didn't.
“Elena.”
His voice came from behind me.
I didn't turn.
Declan stood in the doorway.
No tuxedo now.
Cream shirt.
Sleeves rolled.
Dark trousers.
Hair damp from snow.
His breathing was heavy, as if he had come up the stairs instead of taking the private elevator.
He saw the television.
Then the ultrasound.
Then me.
“What are you doing?”
I almost laughed.
Instead I said, “Watching your engagement.”
He stepped closer.
“Put that down.”
“Why?”
“Elena.”
“Shouldn't you be celebrating?”
His jaw tightened.
“Put the photograph down.”
“It isn't a photograph anymore.”
Another edge blackened.
He moved toward me.
I turned enough that he finally saw my stomach.
Of course there was nothing to see yet.
But my hand covered it instinctively.
Declan stopped.
His eyes dropped.
Then lifted.
“What did you say?”
I looked at him.
“Our baby has a heartbeat.”
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that makes a room feel smaller.
His lips parted.
No sound came out.
I gave him the cruelty of the truth because he had given me the cruelty of television.
“Six weeks and four days.”
The burning corner fell into the sink.
Declan stared at it.
“Six weeks?”
“Four days.”
“Elena…”
“The heartbeat was 164.”
That was the number printed beside the image.
The number he had seen.
His face changed again.
For the first time since I'd met Declan Voss, I saw fear.
Not fear of a gun.
Not fear of police.
Not fear of another crime family.
Something deeper.
Personal.
He reached toward me.
I stepped back.
“Don't.”
His hand stopped.
“The engagement isn't what you think.”
“What exactly should I think?”
“I can explain.”
“You had several days.”
“I couldn't contact you.”
“But you could contact every news station in Chicago?”
His eyes hardened.
“That announcement wasn't for the public.”
I looked toward the television.
“Interesting choice of venue.”
“It was a message.”
“To whom?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation hurt more than an answer.
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No more secrets.”
“You don't understand what is happening.”
“I understand enough. You're marrying Savannah Calloway.”
“I am not in love with Savannah.”
“That is supposed to help?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I dropped the ultrasound into the sink.
Declan moved with startling speed.
His hand came beneath mine.
He caught the unburned edge before it disappeared into the flames.
He slapped the fire against the steel.
Smoke curled between us.
Half the ultrasound remained.
The tiny shape was still visible.
So was the heartbeat number.
Declan stared at it.
His thumb trembled.
I had seen that hand hold a pistol without shaking.
Now it shook over a six-week ultrasound.
He whispered, “That's my child?”
Something inside me almost softened.
Almost.
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes.
For one second, the feared Declan Voss vanished.
There was only a man standing in a kitchen holding proof that he was going to be a father.
Then his eyes opened.
The dangerous man returned.
“When did you find out?”
“This morning.”
“Who knows?”
I stared at him.
That was his first question after the shock.
Not are you okay?
Not are you happy?
Who knows?
My anger returned.
“The doctor. The technician. Me.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Did anyone follow you home?”
I laughed bitterly.
“You announce an engagement to another woman and you're worried somebody followed me?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
Too seriously.
Declan crossed the room and pulled the curtain partly across the window.
He looked toward the neighboring rooftops.
Then he took out his phone.
I recognized the transformation.
His shoulders tightened.
His voice lowered.
His eyes became cold.
“Marco.”
A pause.
“Lock the building down.”
Another pause.
“No one comes up.”
He looked at me.
“And find out who was at Northwestern Memorial today.”
I stepped toward him.
“Absolutely not.”
He covered the phone.
“Elena—”
“You are not threatening hospital employees.”
“I didn't say threaten.”
“You didn't have to.”
His expression softened slightly.
“I need to know if someone saw you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are carrying my child.”
“And suddenly that matters?”
Pain crossed his face.
I wanted to enjoy it.
I couldn't.
Declan ended the call.
He walked toward me slowly.
“Listen carefully. The engagement is not real.”
“The ring looked real.”
“It is.”
“The woman looked real.”
“She is.”
“The announcement?”
“Necessary.”
I folded my arms.
“And the wedding?”
His eyes met mine.
“Supposed to happen in three weeks.”
My stomach dropped.
He continued before I could speak.
“But it won't.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to believe that if I had known about the baby, none of this would have happened this way.”
“That isn't an explanation.”
“No.”
“Then explain.”
He looked toward the windows.
Then the door.
Then me.
I saw calculation behind his eyes.
And fear.
“You need to leave Chicago tonight.”
For a second, I thought I had misheard.
“What?”
“I have a place in Wisconsin. No one connects it to me.”
I stared at him.
“You want to hide me?”
“I want you alive.”
My blood went cold.
“From whom?”
Declan didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
“From Savannah?”
“No.”
“Her father?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
He looked at the half-burned ultrasound in his hand.
When he spoke, his voice had changed.
“The engagement was arranged because someone has been killing people connected to me.”
My anger faltered.
“What people?”
“Two drivers. One accountant. A port manager.”
“You never told me.”
“I was trying to keep you outside it.”
“You failed.”
“Yes.”
The admission was immediate.
“Why Savannah?”
“Her father's intelligence network found something mine didn't.”
“What?”
“A list.”
My mouth went dry.
“What list?”
Declan looked directly at me.
“Names of everyone someone believes I care about.”
The room seemed suddenly colder.
I whispered, “Was I on it?”
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
My hands moved to my stomach.
Declan's voice softened.
“The Calloways offered resources, information, and a ceasefire. In return, they wanted a public alliance.”
“A marriage.”
“A performance.”
“For how long?”
“Until I find who's behind the list.”
“And Savannah agreed?”
“She has reasons of her own.”
I shook my head.
“You still lied.”
“Yes.”
“You humiliated me.”
“Yes.”
“You let me watch you announce an engagement while I was carrying your baby.”
His face tightened.
“I didn't know.”
“But you knew I loved you.”
That one struck him.
He looked away.
I wiped my cheeks.
“I can't do this.”
“You can hate me.”
“I don't hate you.”
“That would be easier.”
“For both of us.”
I walked toward the bedroom.
Declan followed.
“Elena.”
I turned.
“I am leaving tonight.”
“Good.”
“Not for Wisconsin.”
His expression changed.
“You can't stay in the city.”
“I didn't say I would.”
“Where?”
“That's no longer your business.”
“It became my business six weeks and four days ago.”
“No. Becoming a father doesn't make you my jailer.”
His jaw flexed.
“You think I want to control you?”
“I think control is the only language you speak.”
He absorbed that silently.
Then he held out the half-burned ultrasound.
I looked at it.
Our baby's first picture.
Scarred.
Blackened around the edges.
Still there.
I took it.
Declan's fingers remained against mine for half a second.
“I am sorry,” he said.
The words surprised me.
Declan rarely apologized.
He looked at my stomach.
Then at me.
“For all of it.”
I wanted to believe him.
That was the danger.
I went into the bedroom and closed the door.
I packed one suitcase.
Clothes.
Documents.
Medication.
The tiny gray socks.
I wrapped the ultrasound in tissue and placed it inside my purse.
Twenty minutes later, I opened the bedroom door.
Declan was gone.
A note rested on the kitchen counter.
GO TO WISCONSIN. PLEASE TRUST ME ONCE.
I turned the note over.
Nothing.
I left it behind.
At 1:14 a.m., I walked into the private elevator carrying my suitcase.
At 1:15, the elevator stopped unexpectedly on the twenty-third floor.
The doors opened.
May you like
A man I had never seen before stood waiting.
And he was holding my hospital envelope.
