Page 60 of His Stolen Bride

My pocket is heavier after.

I don’t check it in the street. That’d make me look like prey. Instead, I finish the purchase, I thank the vendor, and I steer Oisin toward the car as if we’re late for nothing. He chatters about apple strudel and asks if Sofia will let him stir batter later, and I answer at the right moments while my pulse stays controlled.

The paper stays in my pocket until we’re inside the vehicle and the doors lock.

Even then, I don’t open it. I wait until we’re through the gates and past the first interior checkpoint, and I wait until Oisin runs ahead to show Sofia the small plastic dog he insisted on buying with his own tiny allowance. Only then do I walk to Mikhail’s office without looking at the cameras.

Enzo is outside the door, and he shifts when he sees my face.

“You’re pale,” he says.

“I’m fine,” I answer, and I keep my voice calm so he can’t hear the edge in it. “He’s inside?”

Enzo opens the door for me and steps back like he’s giving me space, but his eyes are already scanning behind me.

Mikhail is at the desk with his phone in his hand, his jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled, his posture reigned in enough to read as calm to anyone who doesn’t know him. He looks up as soon as I enter, and his gaze snaps straight to my hands.

“What happened?” he immediately asks.

I don’t explain it with a story. I pull the folded paper from my pocket and set it on his desk.

He doesn’t touch it right away. His eyes flick to my face again, then to the paper, then to the door. His hand lifts in a small motion.

Enzo closes the door, and I hear the lock click.

Mikhail opens the paper with two fingers like it’s contaminated.

It’s short. Four lines. No signature. No date. No flourish.

Vienna remembers its debts.

The boy is not invisible.

What was promised can still be honored. Come to your master willingly.

Choose how this ends.

He’s written it as if he never saw me as a wife or an equal, but a mere accessory. Mikhail reads it twice, then folds it once, then sets it down flat and looks at me.

He doesn’t ask who delivered it, and he doesn’t ask how. He knows. “This is Vladimir.”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice how he found a way to deliver this directly to you?”

I nod without replying.

“That’s planned,” he says, and his voice stays even, which is effort, not ease. “He wants you reacting.”

“He wants you reacting,” I correct. “He wants me deciding.”

Mikhail leans back slightly and watches me. “You’re not shaking.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Enzo shifts near the door, then speaks carefully. “We can sweep the market, Boss.”

Mikhail doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Later,” he says. “Alina’s thinking.”