I slipped behind the wardrobe door, dropping the towel and pulling on fresh underwear—black lace, clean lines, something that felt like armor rather than invitation. I slid the dress over my head, the fabric cool against my skin, hugging my body without apology. It didn’t try to make me smaller. It didn’t beg for approval.
Good.
At the vanity, I sat and began to rebuild myself piece by piece.
Foundation. Control.
Bronzer. Strength.
Mascara. Clarity.
Red lipstick. Defiance.
My hands were steady, practiced, even though my thoughts were anything but. I felt him behind me—not touching, notmoving—his presence heavy in the room, watching without shame. Not like a man ogling.
Like a man recognizing something he’d once lost.
“You hate them,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I replied, meeting my own gaze in the mirror. “And before you ask—no. You don’t get to use them against me.”
His reflection appeared behind mine. Still. Dangerous.
“I wasn’t planning to,” he said.
Then, softly, he said, “Wear black more often. It suits you.”
“I’ll wear whatever color I choose,” I replied.
He didn’t respond.
He just kept staring—too intent, too focused—as if I were something he couldn’t afford to lose sight of, not even for a millisecond.
When I finished, I turned to face him.
Dmitri Volkov hadn’t moved.
He stood exactly where I’d left him—arms crossed, broad shoulders filling the space like a barricade, his presence dominating the room with effortless authority.
He looked carved from command: still, unyielding, every inch the ruler of this dark empire he pretended not to enjoy.
“And where is my son?” I demanded.
My voice was calm. The kind of calm that came just before something broke.
“He should’ve been brought here by now.”
For the first time since I’d met him again, Dmitri hesitated.
His phone rang before he could answer—a sharp, intrusive sound that snapped through the room like a gunshot. He glanced at the screen, jaw tightening, then answered.
He listened in silence.
No pacing.
No swearing.
