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My father chuckles and nods knowingly.
The events of last night replay in my mind on an endless loop. The groaning wood, Samuil's body hitting the floor, the blood spreading across the hardwood. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to ward off a chill that won't seem to go away.
"The bookcase that fell last night," I begin. "Samuil thinks someone might have tampered with it."
Ivan sets his book aside, giving me his full attention. His eyes are sharp, missing nothing. "What do you think?"
"I don't know." I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "But there was something else. A few days ago, during the renovations I ordered, part of the ceiling structure in the east wing collapsed. I'd walked through that hallway maybe two minutes before it happened. Everyone said it was just old materials giving way, that the house needed the repairs anyway."
"But now you're wondering if it was more than that." It's not a question.
"Yes. Two accidents in less than a week. Both could have killed me. That seems like more than coincidence."
My father is quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant as if looking at something only he can see. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a weight that makes my skin prickle with unease. The morning light streaming through the window casts shadows across his face, making him look older than his years.
"The Rostova family has a long history of tragedies," he says slowly, choosing each word with care. "Deaths that always seemed to be accidents. A fall down the stairs. A riding accident. A fire that started from a knocked-over candle. Each one explainable, each one tragic but never quite suspicious enough to warrant investigation."
"The family curse," I murmur, remembering the stories whispered at family gatherings. For generations, my family members have died due to some kind of accident. I'm not sure when they started referring to it as the curse, but I've known about it practically my whole life. That's how it comes down to just me being the last heir. All my relatives have met untimely deaths.
"That's what we called it." Ivan's expression hardens. "But I don't believe in curses, Ana. I believe in patterns. And the pattern I've seen suggests that someone or someones have been very carefully disguising murder as misfortune for generations."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I think about the symbol carved into his uncle's chest, the one from my nightmares. The mysterious deaths throughout our family history. The ancient sword and the cryptic warning about guardians. Pieces of a puzzle I don't fully understand but that are starting to form a terrifying picture.
"Why?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer. "Why would someone do that?"
"That's what I've been trying to figure out." Ivan leans back in his chair, looking suddenly tired.
The afternoon finds me back in my suite, trying to distract myself with wedding thank-you notes that still need to be written. But my hands shake too much to hold the pen steady, and the words blur on the page. A wave of nausea hits me suddenly, sharp and overwhelming. I drop the pen and rush to the bathroom, barely making it before my stomach rebels.
When the worst passes, I lean against the cool tile wall and close my eyes. This has been happening more frequently over the past few days. At first, I blamed it on stress, but deep down, I have other suspicions.
I push myself to my feet and wash my face with cold water. The pregnancy test is hidden in the back of my bathroom drawer, buried beneath extra toiletries and makeup I never use. I bought it days ago during a shopping trip, slipping it into my bag when no one was looking and hiding it among the other purchases so Samuil wouldn't notice. I've been too afraid to use it, too afraid of what the answer might be.
But I can't avoid it anymore.
My hands tremble as I retrieve the box and tear open the packaging. The instructions are simple enough, though my vision keeps blurring as I try to read them. I follow the steps mechanically, my mind strangely blank. Then I set the test on the counter and force myself to wait, counting the seconds in my mind.
The minutes stretch impossibly long. I pace the small bathroom, my bare feet silent on the tile. Through the closed door, I can hear the distant sounds of the household going about its business, the normal rhythm of life continuing while mine might be about to change forever.
When enough time has passed, I stop pacing and stand in front of the counter, my heart pounding so hard, I can feel it in my throat. This is it. The moment that could change our entire lives.
I slowly lower my gaze to the test. Two unmistakable pink lines stare back at me.
I'm frickin' pregnant!
40
SAMUIL
Ivan sits in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace in the library, looking stronger than he did yesterday but still carrying the weight of what happened. Ana stands by the fireplace, looking lost in her thoughts. She glances up when I enter, then turns and goes to the couch to sit down.
"I brought the Galkin family records," I say, setting down two heavy leather cases on the massive oak table that dominates the center of the room. The cases are old, reinforced with brass corners and locked with mechanisms that require specific combinations only a handful of people know. "Everything dating back to Russia and when my ancestors first came to America. If there's a pattern connecting our families beyond the obvious alliance, it'll be in here."
Ivan nods slowly and pushes himself to his feet with visible effort. He moves to the table and runs his hand over one of the cases with something close to reverence. These aren't just records. They're history, legacy, and proof that our families have been intertwined for far longer than most people realize.
"The Rostova archives are already laid out." He gestures to the opposite end of the table where Ana has arranged stacks of journals, ledgers, and loose papers in careful order, all brought from Ivan's estate by his staff for us to comb through. "I've been through most of these before, but maybe together, we can find something I missed."
Ana wraps her arms around herself despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth. She's wearing dark jeans and a soft sweater that makes her look younger than twenty-five, more vulnerable than the princess who commands attention in every room she enters. Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and there's no makeup hiding the shadows under her eyes. She hasn't been sleeping well since the bookcase incident, and I can't blame her.
