It reminded me of my own fortresses.
Only cleaner. Sharper. Older.
After the final check, a grim-faced guard handed me a keycard. His eyes were flat, unimpressed.
“Your apartment,” he said. “Next to hers. As instructed.”
A beat.
“Don’t cause trouble.”
I nodded once, swallowing the instinct to bristle.
Pride had no place here—not if I wanted to leave with what mattered.
I followed the winding stone paths through the estate, past ancient olive trees twisted with age, past bursts of bougainvillea spilling color over white walls.
The scent of salt and wild herbs filled the air, carried by a breeze off the sea.
And with it came memory.
I had walked these paths before—years ago—when I was younger, meaner, hollowed out by grief and rage.
Ruslan had found me here back then, broken on that hill, half-dead from exposure, my mother freshly murdered, Penelope’s supposed betrayal still burning like acid in my veins.
He had pulled me from the dirt.
Trained me. Hardened me. Given my fury purpose and direction.
I had sworn then that I would return to Penelope—not for love, but for revenge. That I would make her feel even a fraction of what I felt.
And God help me—I had succeeded.
The realization sat like lead in my chest now.
She had never been my enemy. She had been a child—drugged, manipulated, used as a weapon against me.
While I built an empire on blood and ambition, she had lived under the shadow of my hatred, punished for crimes she never committed.
My billions meant nothing here.
My power meant nothing here.
I was just a man walking toward the wreckage he’d created, armed with nothing but regret and time—one year of it, given by a man who could erase me with a phone call.
The apartment building rose ahead—modern and understated, glass and stone designed to blend into the coastline rather than dominate it.
Balconies faced the endless blue of the sea, waves crashing far below like a reminder that nothing stayed still forever.
Mine was directly beside hers.
One wall apart.
One door between me and the woman I had destroyed.
One year.
A blink in the life of an empire. An eternity when measured against guilt.