The hours drag, marked only by the slow burn of cigarettes and the weight of the file still clutched in my hand. The storm outside has eased, but inside my study the silence is heavier than thunder ever was.
I haven’t changed clothes, haven’t moved more than a few paces in either direction. My men came once; someone opened the door, glanced at me, then thought better of speaking. They’ve learned to read silence as well as blood.
When I finally rise, my body protests. My back stiff, my jaw sore from clenching, but I keep the file with me as I leave the study. The hallways stretch quiet and cavernous, lamps burning low. The estate is asleep, or pretending to be. My footsteps echo faintly against the marble, too loud in the stillness.
The thought circles again, sharp as broken glass: killing her would still be the cleanest option. One bullet, one order, andthe problem vanishes. That’s how it should work. That’s how it’s always worked.
But the idea feels impossible now. My hand clenches tighter on the file, as if the paper itself could remind me why. Her defiance in the courtroom, the way she cut through men twice her size without flinching. The way she looked at me with fire in her eyes when she spoke of her father. Suddenly it all makes sense.
She wasn’t bluffing. She wasn’t playing me. She was carrying years of rage sharpened into steel, a blade aimed at my throat the moment she stepped into my world.
I respect it. Even as it endangers everything I’ve built, even as it pushes me toward a choice I don’t want to make.
The lamps flicker as I move down the corridor, the estate breathing quiet around me. My pulse is steady, but inside something simmers, low and dangerous. Controlled—for now.
Her face haunts me with every step. Not the liar I told myself she was. Not the pawn I thought I could use. A woman forged from grief and fury, standing in front of me, unflinching.
I don’t know if I want to break her…
…or let her break me.
***
Vivienne
The walls of this room have memorized my footsteps. I pace again, counting each stride as though it will add up to freedom. Seven steps to the window. Three back to the dresser. Four toward the door. The chain at my ankle rattles faintly, a mocking chime, reminding me how little space I command.
Sleep hasn’t come, not really. Restlessness prowls under my skin like something alive, making me move, making mebreathe shallow. I feel like a caged animal, restless and raw, bracing for whatever strike comes next.
The door opens.
I stop.
Alexei steps inside. No cuffs in his hand. No threats on his lips. He doesn’t even lock the door behind him. That alone sends a current through me, sharp and confusing.
His eyes find mine, steady but different. Quieter.
He doesn’t circle, doesn’t stalk. He just speaks. Plain.
“It wasn’t me.”
For a heartbeat, I just stare. Then I laugh—low, bitter, sharp. “That’s convenient. Months of lies, chains, intimidation, and now you want me to believe this wasn’t you?”
His face doesn’t shift. “It wasn’t.”
The edge in his tone is gone. Not soft, but measured. Controlled in a way that feels… less guarded. My laughter dies, though the bitterness lingers.
“Gaslighting?” I ask, tilting my head. “That’s your angle now? You think you can rewrite the truth because you say so?”
“Shut up and listen,” he says quietly. “I found the file.”
My body tenses. “What file?”
He steps closer, but not too close. “The order. The one that marked your father. It wasn’t my signature. It was his.”
Something cracks in my chest, sharp and dangerous. I school my face into disbelief. “Your father. How convenient. Dead men make good scapegoats.”
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “Believe me or not, but the truth doesn’t bend.”
