I have so many questions, but I know I can trust no one.
I've replayed that night a thousand times. Used it as fuel for my hatred. Proof that she set me up.
But standing here now, watching the building that held my last moments of freedom crumbling, I feel doubt creeping in. Doubt about her guilt.
She was young, relatively sheltered despite her family's connections. In all the time I knew her, I never got the impression she was sneaky or vindictive.
"I want to see the original evidence," I say. "The files from your investigation. All of it."
Roman's expression doesn't change, but I see calculation flash through his eyes. "Of course. You have every right. I'll have my people pull the files tomorrow."
I leave the warehouse site with Roman's promise echoing in my head.
The drive to Semyon's apartment is automatic. I don't consciously decide to go there—my hands just turn the wheel in that direction. Like my body knows I need someone who won't lie to me, even if the truth is uncomfortable.
He opens the door before I can knock, takes one look at my face, and steps aside without a word.
I shed my jacket and drop into the chair by the window, staring out at Moscow's lights without really seeing them.
"How are you doing?" Semyon asks from the kitchen. I hear the clink of glasses, the pour of vodka.
"Fine."
"Bullshit." He hands me a glass and settles into the chair across from me, putting the bottle in the center of the table. "Try again."
I down the vodka in one swallow, welcoming the burn. "Kira came to see me. At the estate."
Semyon's expression doesn't change, but I see his grip tighten on his glass. "And?"
"And nothing." The words come out harsh. "She cried. Swore she never betrayed me. Gave me the same story everyone else does. That she still loves me."
"Do you believe her?"
The question sits heavy between us. I should say no immediately. Should reaffirm my certainty in her guilt.
Instead, I pour myself another drink.
"I don't know." The admission feels like defeat. "I want to believe she's guilty. Need to believe it. But every person I talk to says the same thing—that her grief was real. That she was destroyed."
"Maybe because it's true," Semyon suggests quietly.
"Or maybe she's a better actress than I gave her credit for." I lean back, closing my eyes. "I showed her the scars. Told her exactly what they did to me in that prison. She cried like it physically hurt her to hear it."
"Maybe it did."
"Stop." I open my eyes and glare at him. "Stop defending her. You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "That's why I'm asking questions you don't want to answer. Because watching you destroy the woman you love is destroying you."
The words hit harder than they should. I stand, moving to the window to put distance between us.
"I fucked her," I say, my voice flat. "In the garden at her engagement party. Pressed her against a wall and took her like I had every right.”
Semyon doesn't respond immediately. "How did that feel?"
"Like coming home." The truth rips out of me before I can stop it. "Like everything wrong in the world suddenly made sense again. Like I could breathe for the first time in six years."
"Maksim—"
