A stormy night, like every other, he might’ve thought until his trusted friend and right hand man, Iskander, walked in with news.

“If it’s about the shipment delay in Marseille, I already know.”

Iska: “It’s not business.”

Places a slim medical file on his desk. Iska:“She’s been visiting a doctor in Moscow. Frequently. And… she’s packing. I saw the car.”

Packing? Why? They haven’t fought. Not really. He saw her this morning—she smiled. She always smiles. The doctor? She’s never been sick. Not like that. …No. No, that doesn’t make sense unless—

His hand moves to open the file. Fingers slower than they should be.

Pregnancy confirmed. Eight weeks.

Thunder rolls. He sets the file down gently. Looks at the door like she might walk through it.

“Get the car. Find her. Now.”