My jaw tenses; I’m not sure what the hell to say. “Yeah, I’m going. What about you?”
He shoots me a dumbfounded look. “Diner with Lev. It’s Monday.”
Nu blyat, I forgot. Lev has his routines, and this is one. Every Monday, they go to the same diner not far from where they live.
Kirill starts toward the door, and I follow.
“Can I come?”
He stops just before the elevator, eyes narrowing. “Why? Shouldn’t you be off entertaining your blushing bride?”
I grit my teeth. “Zamalchi.”Shut up.
The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s enjoying this far too much.
Kirill presses the button for the elevator, then glances over. “Already having problems? That has to be a record.”
“This marriage means nothing,” I bite out. “Shemeans nothing.”
“Of course.” Sarcasm threads through his calm tone like a knife.
I don’t care what he thinks. This has never been about me. This marriage is all about her and how much she despises it.
But the thought of her unhappy doesn’t bring me much satisfaction. Not like I thought it would.
Doesn’t matter. This is for the best. The less time I spend near her, the better. The less she talks, the easier it is to pretend I don’t care what she thinks of me. That her moods don’t sink their teeth into mine. That I didn’t spend the entire goddamn day thinking about her. How her morning went. Whether she actually ate the breakfast Galya made. If she smiled. If she felt safe.
I even called Viktor, pretending it was about logistics, just to hear him confirm she got to work without trouble. Then I texted him again hours later to check on her.
I don’t know what the hell is happening to me, but somewhere between the hate and obsession, she’s carved herself into every part of me.
The elevator ride stretches in silence while his words echo in my head, gaining weight with every floor we descend until they settle like lead in my chest.
Once I’m in my car and he’s in his, I grip the wheel harder than I should, that familiar dull pressure blooming behind my ribs again. A throb I can’t ignore. A burn that’s got her name written all over it.
This was supposed to be simple. A transaction. A way to break her down slowly, on my terms.
Instead, she’s breaking me.
By the time I pull up to Kirill’s, he’s already outside, strapping Lev into the backseat. I kill the engine and head toward his car, planning to ride with them.
He eyes me with a smirk. “What, your car broken?”
“Don’t feel like driving.”
“Horosho,” he says, opening the door. “Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later, we roll into the lot. Kirill settles the car in the last row, hidden in the far corner. In the backseat, Lev’s flipping through the pages of his book, headphones on, oblivious that we’ve arrived.
I reach for the door handle, but Kirill stops me with a low grunt.
“Podajdi.”Wait.
I still, following his line of sight with a raised brow.
Two rows down, a young woman, maybe mid-twenties, steps out of a rusted Volkswagen. She stretches like her body’s been folded too long, knuckles pressed into the small of her back, then drags a hand through her light brown hair.
Her eyes scan the lot as if she’s making sure no one is watching.
