Page 77 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Feodor confirmed.

"And one more thing," he said, voice shifting.

"Talk."

"We already pulled Isabella's movements after she left New York. The hotels, the people she met, the timing of her first exam—it doesn't match the story she fed you."

Rage flared in my chest. Then it went cold, sharp enough to cut.

"The baby?"

"On paper, the dates could line up, but—" He paused. "I already sent you the report. Look at it."

My screen lit up. Before the file even finished loading, I was moving for the door. Feodor's tone told me everything.

Isabella had lied to me from the first second to the last.

Chapter 20

Elena

I had nowhere to go.

I sat on the loneliest bench in the park, my suitcase and paint box by my feet. Morning mist soaked the hem of my dress, cold climbing my skin. I still didn't move.

Go back to the Rossi house?

My father had already known Isabella had come back. Now that my sister had stepped right into her old spot again, I—Kiryan's discarded stand-in—would only remind him what the Rossi family had lost. He wouldn't ask if I was hurt. He'd ask how much a divorce would wreck, how many partnerships it would blow up, then he'd blame me for not being able to keep a man.

A hotel wasn't an option either. Registration. Cameras. Front desk staff. Any one of those could hand my location to Kiryan. I didn't want to go home and get torn apart. I didn't want him to find me.

So I sat there.

New York was huge, and still—there wasn't a single door that belonged to me.

I pressed my hand to my lower belly. It was still flat, so quiet it made me wonder if the hospital exam had been a dream.

"I'm sorry."

The second the words left my mouth, I realized I was crying.

Tears hit the back of my hand. The more I wiped, the more came. My chest felt packed with soaked cotton, every breath heavy and sharp.

I'd wanted to give this baby a whole home. I'd even been willing to wait for Kiryan one more time.

But he had already been building a whole home for another baby.

A dark sedan pulled up at the curb.

The door opened, and Yegor strode over.

"Elena?"

I lifted my head, my hand snapping to my stomach on instinct.

He wore a dark sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, moving with an unhurried ease that screamed privilege—yet every motion stayed perfectly polite. He took in my ruined face, then flicked his gaze to the luggage by my feet.

"What are you doing out here?" I swiped at my tears in a panic.