Page 2 of Wishing Stone

“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

I gave her a pointed look.

“Nothing is too extreme when it comes to your safety,” I said bluntly.

“So, what you want is for me to be locked up in a gilded cage,” she summarized, motioning to the grand house surrounding us with a sweep of her arm. There was a slight curve to her lips, and it was hard to tell if she took my rules seriously or found them amusing. My wife could be hard to read at times—an enigma of sorts—and I couldn’t remember a time when I wanted to see into her mind more than I did at that moment.

“Angel, I don’twantto keep you confined in such a strict way. I need to. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she said with resignation. “We’ve experienced so much loss. I know this is just your way of doing everything you can to minimize the risks of me miscarrying again—or worse.”

Moving over to the bed, I sat down next to her and pressed my forehead to hers.

“Sometimes I feel like the world has gone mad, and this is the only way I know how to keep some small measure of control amidst the chaos. You’re my angel. I would never survive if something were to happen to you. The only way I will agree to try having a baby again is if you agree to my terms.”

She angled her head back, revealing sparkling tears in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled, and I quieted her tumbling breath with a press of my lips. When I pulled away, she smiled.

“I’ll do anything if it means we get to begin our family. I love you, Alex.” Clasping my face between her palms, she brought her lips to mine once more, effectively sealing our deal.

I should have felt good about the arrangement. After all, I was in control. It was what I’d wanted. But all I felt was trepidation.

1

One Year Later

Alexander

New York was known as the city that never sleeps. That was true—until recently, that is. The blare of taxicab horns seemed a lot less frequent now. It used to take over an hour to get from Soho to Midtown during rush hour, but now one could sometimes make the drive in less than twenty minutes. A lot had changed in just a few short years. I thought I was prepared for it, but some things were impossible to predict.

I mused over all that was different as I pulled from the Cornerstone Tower parking ramp and steered my Tesla Model S through the streets of Lower Manhattan. The light at the upcoming intersection turned red and I slowed to a stop. Glancing out the window, I took in the festive garland strung between the streetlamps. It connected to each light post with silver bells and holly. I eyed up the storefronts lining the street. A few blocks ahead, there used to be a shop called Indio Banks, a renowned men’s fashion designer. The owner had custom-tailored the suit I was currently wearing. Now the shop had empty, dusty windows, matching so many other stores and restaurants in the once bustling city.

The abandoned storefronts were a stark contrast to the curbside Christmas cheer. New York was suffering, and I wondered if she would ever return to being the pulsating and energetic Big Apple that I once knew.

As I drove along the Hudson River, past the Javits Center, and through Hell’s Kitchen, I thought about my wife and how sad it would make her when she eventually saw what had become of New York. While there were no more secrets between Krystina and me, I didn’t have the heart to tell her how the city she loved so much had changed.

After three and a half years of marriage, we were in a good place, and I would do anything to keep us there. We’d overcome a lot, and there were times when I thought we were strong enough to handle anything. It was all about embracing change, something I usually welcomed. After all, progress wasn’t possible without it. Navigating life’s ups and downs was a challenge that I happily took on, recognizing that controlling the direction of the current was the key to achieving my desired results.

Although it hadn’t been easy, Krystina had adjusted remarkably well to being married to someone like me. She quickly adapted to the need for privacy and understood how easily we could become a tabloid fixture. The press had always taken an interest in me before, but the paparazzi had become wholly obsessed after I married Krystina. They stalked our every move, and I’d hated that she’d had to suffer through the worst of it. Everything from the clothes she wore to how she styled her hair had been scrutinized in the tabloids. It was maddening. There had been several occasions when I’d come close to slugging a few shady reporters lurking about, but I’d held back thanks to Hale Fulton, the head of my security team.

Hale. Add that to the list of things that had changed.

Hale and I had gone through a rough patch a few years ago, but time proved to heal most wounds. He may have been my security detail for years, but he was so much more than that. I loved him like a father. I just didn’t realize how much until I suddenly didn’t have the man who’d always been there for me since I was a little boy.

I knew the weight of his betrayal still hung heavy on his shoulders, but ultimately, none of it was his fault. Yes, he had lied to me, but I couldn’t hold it against him. He’d been acting out of loyalty, and I would have done exactly as he had if I were in his position.

Still, Hale had noticeably aged after the web of dark lies surrounding my family fell apart. While still physically fit, the retired Navy Commander had begun looking tired, so I’d decided to take him off my personal detail. Instead of being my chauffeur and bodyguard, I had him oversee all security operations, including the property in Westchester, where I’d built a home with Krystina.

After the death of his mother, I suggested Hale move into the guesthouse on the east side of the property. After all his years of service, he deserved the quaint but spacious 2-bedroom home. Plus, I wanted him close to the house while I worked in the city. Paparazzi could often be found near property lines, and after a picture of my half-naked wife lounging by our inground pool had been plastered all over the local tabloids, I wanted to make sure nothing like that happened ever again.

Continuing the hour-long commute home from work, I jumped onto I-87 toward Westchester County until I reached the long winding road that led to home. Freshly fallen snow covered the ground and tree-lined street. It shimmered on the branches from the low-hanging sun. Pulling my sunglasses from the visor, I shielded my eyes from the bright rays bouncing off the tiny white crystals.

I slowed as I approached the concealed private driveway. Then, turning left, I continued up a small hill to where our custom-built home had been constructed three years ago. After much debate over the blueprints, I’d given into Krystina’s desires to build a Georgian Colonial made with handpicked stone. I’d wanted her happy above all else, and giving up my contemporary design ideas of steel, concrete, and glass was a small sacrifice to make. Instead, the house had a traditional feel, but I ensured it included all the modern amenities from the original architectural plans I’d commissioned.

Tall pines dusted with white snow flanked both sides of the ten-thousand square feet Chappaqua mansion, making it look like it belonged in a Currier and Ives painting. Smoke billowed from the chimney on the east side of the house, signaling that Vivian, our live-in housekeeper, had lit a fire in one of the four woodburning fireplaces.

I maneuvered the Tesla around the semi-circular driveaway toward the back of the house. Usually, I would have just parked out front and let Hale or Samuel Faye, another security staff member, bring the car to the garage. However, I knew they were currently out surveying the property for any damage that may have occurred to our security systems during a windstorm we’d had a couple of days ago. Because of that, I was on my own today.

When I reached the row of garage doors, I slowed the car to stop, then climbed out and walked up to the lockbox mounted on the exterior wall. After inserting my key, I opened the metal door. A pin pad and a palm scanner were inside the box for extra security. One could never be too careful when owning a Ferrari Sergio and a slew of other luxury vehicles valued high enough to feed a small country. Placing my palm on the glass screen, I waited for it to flash green, then typed in my passcode.

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