The sky had torn open, and Arzhen Vasiliev had thought only of her.
Not the company or the lawsuit. Not the father who had returned from the dead to destroy him, or the mother he had crippled, her vocal cords severed, locked in the basement of a mansion, wailing a sound that was more like a cow than a woman.
When the vortex had spread across the heavens, when the black clouds had swallowed the moon and the sirens had begun their yelling, his mind had gone blank of everything except a single, burning image.
Cecilia, heavily pregnant, somewhere in this dying city. Alone. Carrying a child that should have been his.
He had tried to call her. His phone had rung once, twice, then gone to voicemail. He had tried again. And again. And again. Each failed connection was a blade between his ribs.
She had only unblocked his number as a transaction and she was still out there somewhere, facing the end of the world.
She had not thought to reach for him. Why would she?
