“You should have chosen me.”
The words cut cleaner than any blade. Deeper than the lashes. Deeper than the bullets I’d taken in my life.
She took a step back, putting space between us, as if distance itself were a shield.
“It’s better to be dead,” she continued, each word measured, devastating, “than to live with the memory of being used bysavage men—passed from one to another like an object of desire. Better than my year as a slave in the Albanian underworld.”
My chest collapsed inward.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
The word felt obscene—too small, too fragile to hold the weight of what I’d done. “I’m so damn sorry. I thought I was saving you. I thought—”
“Get up.”
Her voice cut through me like ice water.
“Go back to your apartment,” she said flatly. “I need to prepare Vanya for the fact that you’re here. I won’t have him walking into this unprepared. He’s been through enough.”
She reached for the door, fingers steady despite everything.
“And Dmitri,” she added without looking at me, “do not appear in front of me again. I need space. Real space.”
I opened my mouth—desperate, foolish—but the door slammed shut before I could form a single word.
The sound echoed down the corridor like a gunshot.
Something inside my chest gave way.
I stayed exactly where I was—still on my knees, forehead hovering inches from the wood, hands limp at my sides.
The polished floor was cold beneath me, leeching warmth from my bones, but I barely felt it.
The world narrowed to the ache behind my ribs, the burn in my throat, the hollow where hope had dared to exist for a few fragile minutes.
I don’t know how long I stayed there.
Minutes. Maybe longer. Time lost all meaning.
My knees went numb, pins and needles crawling up my legs, my back stiffening into pain—but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
I couldn’t face the empty apartment waiting next door.
I couldn’t face the mirror that would show me what I’d become.
Footsteps approached—soft, careful. A shadow fell across me.
“Mr. Volkov,” the butler said gently, his Greek accent rounding the words. “Do you require anything? Water, perhaps? Or assistance to your rooms?”
I lifted my head slowly, blinking against the corridor lights.
He stood a respectful distance away—middle-aged, immaculate, eyes kind in the way of men who have seen too much grief to judge it.
I stared at him for several heartbeats.
Then, without a word, I pushed myself upright.
My legs protested violently, blood rushing back in sharp needles, but I ignored it. I turned, crossed the handful of steps to my door, unlocked it with shaking fingers, and stepped inside.