Page 135 of Captive Prize

She had fought a battle most thought she couldn’t win.

I had doubted her strength.

I should have known better.

“Come meet your son, husband.”

EPILOGUE

ZOYA

The warmth of our newborn son against my chest should have been the only thing occupying my mind.

After everything we'd been through—the blood, the fear, the miracle of his survival when doctors said it was impossible—this moment should have been perfect.

Roman sat beside my hospital bed, his large hand gently stroking our baby's tiny fingers, wonder and disbelief still written across his features.

We had defied every medical prediction, every dire warning about my condition.

Our son was here, breathing, perfect.

But the peace didn't last.

The synchronized buzz of multiple phones shattered the quiet intimacy of our hospital room.

Roman's phone. Then Gregor's. Artem's. Pavel's. Kostya's. Damien's.

One after another.

The sound sliced through the room, as every single Ivanov man stared at their device with identical expressions of dread.

Roman's jaw clenched so hard I could practically hear his teeth grind together.

"Fuck," Gregor muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Artem was already on his feet, pacing to the window. "This is about that damn senator bullshit, isn't it?"

"Has to be," Pavel said grimly, bouncing his own daughter in his arms as if the motion could ward off whatever storm was brewing.

The wives exchanged worried glances, but they knew better than to ask questions when their husbands reacted this way. Even Yelena, who usually commanded attention in any room, stayed silent.

The air grew heavy, oppressive.

Roman's hand stilled on our son's head, his protective instincts kicking in with whatever crisis was unfolding in those digital messages.

"I'm handling it," Gregor said, his voice tight with barely controlled frustration. "There's no reason for him to come here. Not now."

"Handling it?" Artem's laugh was bitter. "Clearly not well enough if Darius is flying in tonight."

"Tonight?" Roman's voice was deadly quiet.

The kind of quiet that preceded bloodshed.

Gregor nodded, his expression grim. "Private jet lands at eleven."

Whatever was in those messages had shifted the entire atmosphere from celebration to impending disaster.

Fear and fury hung in the air.

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