And when I stepped forward, he was the one who shifted back.
“I’m going home tomorrow,” I said. “Back to Greece. Back to my life. My son acted impulsively. End of story.”
The smile that slid across his mouth was slow... cold... and predatory enough to chill bone.
“You’re not leaving this territory, Pen.”
His voice lowered, turning into something ancient and merciless.
“Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until I say so.”
I turned from him, shoulders tight, throat closing.
I walked to the door because I had to — because standing still would have undone me.
“You want a disposable wife to save your empire?” I said over my shoulder. “Pick one of the hundreds of women who’d murder their own sisters for the privilege. Not me.”
My fingers curled around the doorknob, knuckles white. It rattled—betraying me, betraying the fear I refused to show him.
I forced myself to turn it, to step out, to keep my spine straight until the door clicked shut behind me.
The moment I crossed the threshold, my legs buckled.
I slumped against the hallway wall, one hand splayed over my pounding heart, the other gripping the cold plaster as if it could anchor me.
My lungs seized, tight and greedy for clean air.
The smoke he’d been exhaling—careless, relentless—still clung to me, burning my throat, brushing the edges of my asthma like a match flirting with gasoline.
But it wasn’t just the smoke.
It was him.
His voice, his nearness, the way he still filled a room and swallowed all the oxygen with him.
Five minutes with Dmitri Volkov, and my entire body was vibrating like it had touched a live wire.
Five years.
Five years, and still my pulse obeyed him like some trained, broken thing—snapping toward him the way a compass needle claws north, helpless and feral.
I despised it.
I despised him.
Most of all, I despised the shameful, pathetic part of me that had wanted to say yes. That had leaned toward him instead of away.
My breath hitched, and I spun on my heel, practically fleeing down the hall. Each hurried step echoed off the marble corridor, a frantic staccato betraying everything I was trying to hide. By the time I reached our room, my hands were trembling so badly I could barely get the door open.
When the door finally gave, swinging open under my shaking hand, my eyes landed on Vanya—exactly where I’d left him.
Sprawled face-down across the bed, kicking his legs in sharp, frustrated little jerks, fists clenching and unclenching against the sheets like he was trying to strangle the mattress.
The moment I stepped fully inside—two steps, no more—he snapped upright so violently the mattress jolted.
His eyes were wild, bright with fury and something that looked too much like fear.
“Did he bully you?” he demanded, the words cutting like a blade.
