Chapter 2 - The Extraction
Julian’s arrogance was a fragile, manufactured thing, entirely dependent on his bank account and his family name. Faced with a man who controlled the city’s underworld—a man who did not care about social decorum or country club rules—Julian completely unraveled.
"You... you're Nikolai Machado," Julian choked out, the blood draining from his face, leaving him a pale, sweating mess. "The—"
"Five seconds," Nikolai interrupted smoothly.
Julian didn't wait for zero. He grabbed his fiancée by the elbow, practically dragging her through the crowd, fleeing the ballroom with the panicked urgency of a man running from a burning building. The crowd of wealthy socialites parted for him, offering no sympathy, only terrified silence.
Nikolai turned his attention back to me. His gray eyes softened, searching my face, taking in the trembling of my lower lip and the tears I had fought so hard to hold back.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice low, for my ears only.
"No," I whispered, my voice shaking. "How did you find me?"
"You left me a drawing," Nikolai said, his thumb brushing a stray curl away from my cheek. "You drew my watch. The serial number was visible. It took my men seven months to cross-reference the hotel cameras, track the cab you took, and find the gallery where you sell your art. I have been looking for you since the moment I woke up and found the bed empty."
My heart hammered wildly against my ribs. "I saw the news. The courthouse. I was scared."
"I know," he murmured, stepping closer, effectively shielding my pregnant body from the stares of the ballroom. "I do not blame you for running. But you are done running now. You, and my daughter."
He didn't ask if I wanted to leave. He simply placed a heavy, protective hand on the small of my back—a touch so vastly different from Julian's performative ownership. Nikolai's touch was an anchor.
"Walk with me," he commanded softly.
We walked out of the Hartwell Grand Ballroom. No one stopped us. No one asked for my sketchbook, which was still clutched in my hand. The valet had his armored black SUV idling at the curb before we even reached the heavy glass doors.
Four men in dark suits stepped out of the shadows, forming a protective perimeter as Nikolai helped me into the plush leather backseat of the vehicle. It smelled like cedar and expensive leather.
He slid in beside me. The doors locked with a heavy, metallic thud. The tinted windows blocked out the flash of a rogue paparazzi camera.
As the SUV pulled away from the curb, leaving the glittering, toxic world of my past behind, the adrenaline finally left my body. I slumped against the seat, a sudden wave of exhaustion washing over me.
May you like
Nikolai reached over and gently pulled the sketchbook from my rigid grip. He set it aside. Then, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his chest.
"Sleep, Serena," he whispered, pressing a kiss into my hair. "I have you now. No one will ever look at you with disrespect again."
