Page 164 of Lethal Legacy

I’m not sure who I’m trying to reassure.

He leaves. Ofelia’s gone quite pale. “I thought she wasn’t supposed to get here until tomorrow.”

“She probably just wanted to spend time with you.” I force myself to smile, despite the uncomfortable prickling sensation under my skin. “Or maybe take you shopping.”

“I need to do my hair,” she says worriedly. Instead of her normal shorts and T-shirt, she reaches for a tight-fitting black Versace dress that shows a vast expanse of leg and a pair of very high heels. She exchanges my earrings for gold chains with the Gucci logo hanging from each end that drip down from each ear.

The outfit ages her by approximately a decade, particularly when she piles her hair up in a distressed bun and adds mascara and lipstick. It’s also completely inappropriate for a lunchtime outing.

Roman will have a fit.

But I’m not getting between Ofelia and her mother, particularly given our recent shopping expedition.

“I’ll head upstairs when she gets here,” I say quietly. “If you need me, just call.”

She nods distractedly. It kills me to see her tension.

The elevator dings, and a moment later I hear a piercing shriek. “Mickey! Masha, darling! Look how big you’ve gotten!”

I wait until I hear them all move to the kitchen, then slip down the corridor to the elevator, taking it up to Roman’s apartment. I hit call on his number as I go, my heart thudding uneasily.

He doesn’t answer.

I write a brief message instead:Inger is here, in the apartment with the children.

I stare at the screen, but the message stays unread. I try not to let it upset me.

Is it really possible that he didn’t know she was arriving?

In the penthouse there’s an empty vodka bottle on the dining table, with two glasses and the remnants of several cigars. The scene makes me feel vaguely uneasy. Then again, everything lately seems to do that.

Roman came home after midnight last night. Instead of summoning me, he just sent a message saying he’d see me tonight. I know he had a big presentation yesterday, so I’m guessing that ran late. Clearly, going by the empty vodka bottle, it went well.

Equally clearly, he celebrated his success with someone that isn’t me.

That hurts. More than it probably should, since going by the cigars, it’s unlikely he was drinking with anyone other than Dimitry.

It still hurts.

Normally I would have messaged him good luck yesterday. But since Ofelia’s comment about “wishing” I could attend the ball, I’ve been feeling more and more insecure.

Roman has rarely answered my messages from the beginning, usually just putting a thumbs-up on them. It never bothered me before. I know how busy he is; sending a photo of the kids or a short message was just my way of keeping him connected to the family as he was working.

But now I can’t help but think that the only times he ever messages me is either for logistical arrangements or to summon me for sex. We haven’t actually gone out for a meal together, minus the kids, since the night at the castle. It’s always lunch or dinner in the apartment, followed by a bedroom liaison in his penthouse, whether during siesta or late at night. Again, it never bothered me before. But he’s known about this ball for weeks and never mentioned it to me at all. If he’s planning to attend, and I can’t imagine a man in his standing in the Russian community wouldn’t, it isn’t with me.

If I needed further proof of his indifference, he doesn’t seem to have missed my daily updates. Last night’s late message is the only one he’s sent, other than the normal arrangements for the kids.

What makes it far worse is that my period is now almost a week overdue. And that terrifies me beyond rational thought. I still haven’t brought myself to actually take the test.

The sound of footsteps makes me start. I relax when I see Maria, the maid who always cleans the penthouse. “Hola, Maria.” I force a smile.

“Lucia.” She looks unusually worried. “Is everything alright with Mr. Stevanovsky?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I feel a twinge of alarm.

“It’s just that room,” she says in rapid Spanish that betrays her nerves. “You know, the one that is always locked.”

“What about it?”

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