“I am happy.”
“Because of his money. His power. Everything I couldn’t give you.”
“No. Because he sees me as a person, not a convenience.”
“I saw you as a person.”
“You saw me as a caretaker. Someone to cook your meals and clean your apartment and listen to your problems without having any of my own.” I lean forward. “That’s why you cheat, because I stopped being useful when my mother died. Because taking care of me was harder than letting Lizzy take care of you.”
His face reddens. “That’s not?—”
“It is. And you know it.” I grab my purse and start to stand. “I’m done here. Don’t contact me again. Don’t follow me. Don’t?—”
“Sit down.”
Something in his voice makes me pause. It’s not the desperate tone from before. It’s harder. Colder.
“We’re not done yet,” he says.
“Yes, we are.”
“No.” He leans back in the booth, and for the first time since I sat down, I notice how strange his expression is.
He pulls out his phone again, but this time he doesn’t show me photos. He just holds it. “I got a call about a month ago. Someone who knew about us. About what happened between us.”
My stomach drops. “Who?”
“They said they could help me. Give me enough money to get back on my feet. All I had to do was get you to meet me. In a public place. Somewhere busy.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Somewhere like this.”
“Mason, what did you do?”
“What I had to do to survive.” He glances over my shoulder, and I see something flicker across his face. Fear. “They promised me twenty thousand dollars. Said they just wanted to talk to you. To scare your husband a little.”
I turn to follow his gaze.
Three men in dark suits are moving through the restaurant toward us. They’re not hurrying, not drawing attention. Just walking with purpose, their eyes locked on our table.
On me.
“Mason.” My voice comes out strangled. “What did you do?”
“I’m sorry.” He’s backing out of the booth now, scrambling to his feet. “I’m so sorry, Savannah. I didn’t know they’d—I thought they just wanted to talk to you.”
“You sold me out.”
The first man reaches our table before Mason can finish. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that looks like it’s been carved from stone. His eyes are cold and empty.
“Mrs. Volkov,” he says, and his accent is thick, Russian. “Please come with us.”
“No.” I’m reaching into my purse, fingers fumbling for my phone. For the panic button Ledger installed.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult.”
“I said no.”
The second man moves to block the exit. The third positions himself between me and the other diners, creating a wall.
“Your husband killed Viktor Kozlov,” the first man continues, his voice conversational, like we’re discussing the weather. “Burned his body to ash so our family had nothing to bury. Nobody to say goodbye to. Just ash and memories.”
