His wedding is tomorrow at five in the evening. It is the only way he can hold on to what remains of Lake Como’s empire.
You should also know what these five years have done to him.
He hasn’t slept more than a few hours at a time. His health is breaking; his temper, once steel, is now ash. He’s let his mansion decay, let his alliances fracture, let men whisper that the great Dmitri Volkov has finally broken. He has pushed away friends, ignored the counsel of his brothers, and stared at every blonde woman he passed on the street—hoping, praying it was you.
Loving you has cost him everything. Losing you almost killed him.
But you and I both know you have endured your own kind of death.
I can’t claim Dmitri was innocent. He hurt you—his cruelty, his possessiveness, his silence, his secrets. But he has paid for every one of those sins. And I believe you still love him, even if you no longer admit it aloud.
Penelope... your son deserves the truth of who he is.
He deserves the chance to know his father.
And Dmitri deserves one moment—one chance—to choose you again with open eyes.
As a friend to you both, I am asking you to return to Lake Como and put an end to the wedding. If your marriage can be salvaged, let it be rebuilt with the knowledge of what it is to lose everything. If not, at least let truth replace the ghosts haunting him.
Speak to Elias when you’ve made your choice.
A jet will be ready to fly you wherever you decide.
This isn’t a debt.
You owe me nothing.
Ruslan Baranov
The sunlit room of Ruslan Baranov’s estate suddenly felt smaller—too suffocating for the storm rising inside me.
The letter trembled in my hand, its edges cutting into my palm as though trying to anchor me to the present.
My nails dug crescent moons into my skin, drawing thin lines of blood, but even that sting couldn’t ground me.
Ruslan’s words blurred, rearranged, sharpened again.
Dmitri.Wedding.Tomorrow.
A tremor ran through me, and the past—my carefully buried, stitched-together past—ripped itself open.
Five years ago—on the morning of my twenty-fifth birthday—I had choicelessly honored Dmitri’s invitation to his wedding.
I had no idea I was walking into a trap.
No idea I was the bride of the day.
I remember the moment everything shifted.
The marble floors shone like polished bone under the cathedral’s chandeliers. The candles were too tall, burning too cold, dripping wax like tears.
And then he appeared.
Dimitri Volkov.
The boy I once loved—now a man carved from ice and violence.
He approached me with a calmness that felt like a loaded gun pressed against my spine.
