Page 36 of Porcelain Lies

The door slams behind me with a satisfying crack that silences Gianni’s stream of promises. The sound reverberates through the spacious hallway, each echo marking another step I take toward the elevator.

My hands shake as I press the down button, but my spine stays straight. The elevator arrives with a soft ding. I step inside, turning to face the polished doors that reflect a warped version of myself.

“I did it,” I whisper to Boyana. In the distorted reflection, I swear I catch a glimpse of her proud smile.

The elevator descends smoothly, each floor taking me further from the penthouse prison of Italian marble and guilt-wrapped gifts. My fingers find the engagement ring in my purse — the massive diamond he bragged cost more than most people’s houses. I pull it out, studying how it catches the light. Such a pretty cage.

The doors open to the lobby. Marco, the doorman, starts to rise with his usual greeting, but something in my expression makes him sink back into his chair. Ignoring him, I cross the foyer, my heart still racing with rage and adrenaline.

I pause at the brass trash bin near the entrance. The ring glints one last time before I drop it in, the soft thud of metal hitting paper oddly anticlimactic for such an expensive gesture.

Sunlight hits my face as I push through the revolving doors. The morning air tastes different — cleaner somehow, despite the LA smog. My car sits where I left it, but I feel miles away from the woman who parked it here twenty minutes ago.

It hurts, there’s no doubt about it, but I’d expected it to hurt more. What I mainly feel is a profound sense of relief.

“You dodged a bullet,”says Boyana.

“I know,” I whisper, dashing away tears as I head to my car. “Time to put it all behind me…”

I’m free.

Chapter Eleven

Aleksei

Peace.

Fucking finally.

My shoulders drop as I lean back in my leather chair, savoring the quiet. Until the video call notification pierces the silence. Vasya’s profile picture fills my screen.

Blyad.

No rest today.

I tap “accept.” My older brother’s broad frame appears, his usual stoic expression replaced by something tighter. More urgent.

“We have a situation.” His deep voice carries none of its usual calm.

“About our West Coast shipments?” I brace myself.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Something bigger. Tomas Larkin.”

“Tomas Larkin?” I frown.

“The doctor who performed Bobik’s delivery.”

My blood runs cold. The pen in my grip snaps, ink spilling across my fingers. Ten years of searching, of following dead ends and false leads. The doctor who destroyed my son’s future, who fled like a coward in the night.

“You found him?” My voice comes out rough, primal.

Vasya’s face fills my screen as he leans closer. “He changed his name to Fermont. Moved to Los Angeles with his family.” He pauses, watching my reaction.

“What?” I blurt. The armrest cracks under my grip. “The bastard’s hiding here in LA? Show me everything.” I force the words out through gritted teeth.

Documents flood my screen. Forged birth certificates, travel documents, proof of residence.

I lean forward, muscles coiled tight as Vasya’s words wash over me. Each detail hits like a physical blow.

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