He put a hand to his chest, trying to calm the ache that radiated from his breastbone. He couldn’t sort all of it out. The only thing he did know was that he loved Hannah, and she was gone.
Overprotective. She’d been angry because he was overprotective, but Kyril knew how easily things could go wrong in the world. The fire at his boarding school had been proof of that. He’d claimed everyone was accounted for, but one boy had been left behind. He’d been rescued by the fire crew—in the end, he suffered only from mild smoke inhalation—but it taught Kyril the value of double-checking. Triple-checking, if need be. The memory took him back to that day on a current of sheer feeling. The shame had been nearly unbearable. It had changed his life forever.
He couldn’t stay still any longer.
Kyril wandered through the suite, aimless, looking for any place he could feel at home. He tried the bedroom. The exercise room. The library.
There wasn’t anywhere. Not the sitting room, not the office, not the den.
Finally, he found himself in the nursery.
It was immaculate. A folded blanket hung neatly over the side of the white crib Hannah had chosen, a splash of yellow in the gray and white scheme. Everything about the room seemed soft and soothing. Kyril sighed. Would his child ever sleep in here? Without Hannah, it seemed to lack something—a soul, perhaps. He turned to go, but the clutter on the desk caught his eye.
Hannah had made a little workspace for herself next to the changing table, which she’d already stocked with neat stacks of diapers, wipes and cream. The surface of the desk was scattered with small objects, and one larger one. It looked like a craft project. It was a craft project. But which one of the many she’d started was this?
He went closer.
It was a mobile, half assembled, and it was nothing like the mobiles Hannah had shown him in the magazines he’d given her. Those were miniature pieces of art, with abstract pieces to coordinate with the rest of the nursery. This wouldn’t be like that at all when it was finished. The objects surrounding it on the desk were mementos. They belonged to Hannah, and he recognized quite a few of them. A miniature Eiffel Tower. The little figurine of the gondola. Those two were already attached to the mobile.
He sat heavily on a low chair next to the desk, the mobile in his hands.
It was utterly impractical, that thing. Too crafty for his taste—how could she be sure the ornaments wouldn’t come off?—but it was the only thing in the whole suite that felt like Hannah. It was entirely unapologetic for its loudness, for the quirky arrangement of the ornaments, for the way it was handmade.
Kyril ran his thumb over the smooth surface of the gondola, and his heart pulsed, a sharper ache.
It was an international mobi
le, that was clear, and all the colors and trinkets reminded him powerfully of her. Hannah had been bold enough to insist on her own way, even in the face of his power. She’d planned her own trips. She’d been so satisfied at the end of every day, even with aching feet and a sunburn. When everything went right, she relished it. Her plans in Venice had been arranged down to the minute, and he knew that if he’d let her carry on with them, she’d have done it all.
Even when she’d pushed back against his protectiveness, it had been wonderful. It had all turned out wonderfully. Who knew baklava could work as an appetizer? She’d made them visit every ruin in Rome, even after he forbid her from seeing the Tarpeian Rock from the summit, and all afternoon in that bouncing Jeep, he’d had the time of his life with her hand in his. Kyril never would have hired that particular driver, but that was the magic of Hannah. With her, things seemed to turn out just right. Even the wedding ceremony on the yacht had been perfect. Far better than signing a document in a stuffy office, as he’d arranged.
Except this time.
He’d driven her to the edge, and in typical Hannah fashion, she’d leapt into independence. Kyril turned the mobile over in his hands. She wasn’t just willful, he realized. She was strong. Her life had made her strong in a way that he hadn’t yet appreciated. He was certain that she wouldn’t be so strong if it hadn’t been for those early hardships.
He’d underestimated her.
Kyril let out a short breath, regret washing over him. He loved Hannah, and he respected her. He respected the way she moved in the world. He respected her capabilities. And he respected her strength of self.
He’d done a poor job of showing it. A very poor job. And that was why she was somewhere in the city, alone, and he was here. Alone.
It was clear to Kyril then, as clear as the glass in Venice, that he was in danger of losing her.
The tighter he tried to hold her, the more she would push away.
The more he tried to shelter Hannah, the faster and farther she would run.
If he kept this up, he’d lose her for good.
Hope rose, fiery in his chest. He couldn’t lose her.
He stood up from the chair, holding the mobile tight in his hands. Kyril knew in the depths of his soul that he had one final chance…and he knew what he would do with it, for better or for worse.
18
Hannah leaned back against the pillows piled high on her bed, trying to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy in this hotel. The bed felt wrong, somehow, and no matter how many pillows she stuffed behind her, her back still ached. If she was being honest, her heart ached, too. It had been exhilarating to make her own plans again, to get into that car without another person telling her what to do. But after two days of being in the hotel room, the exhilaration had worn off. It seemed so…empty.
She needed a distraction.