I didn't know. Didn't understand the trauma she carried. The violation that shaped her. If I had known, I would have been gentler. Would have taken more care. Would have given her tenderness instead of dominance.
The shame has been eating me alive all week.
I've watched from a distance. Noticed the way my brothers interact with her now. How Maksim looks at her like she's the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life. How Alexei grins when she enters a room, his usual chaos settling into calm.
They seem happy. Can men like us be happy? I don't know. But they seem closer to it than I've seen them in years.
And Victoria seems more grounded. Less elusive. Like she's stopped running from whatever this is between all of us.
Meanwhile, I'm on the outside. Looking in. Afraid to get close again. Afraid of hurting her worse than I already have.
I need to apologize. Need to find a moment alone with her to make this right.
The waitress approaches. Young. Professional. She tells us our suite is ready.
We follow her through corridors lined with photographs of championship matches and ancestral donors. The Windermere Club was established in 1934, and it wears its exclusivity like a badge of honor. Everything here screams wealth and lineage and the particular confidence of people who've never had to fight for survival.
I don't belong here.
The thought surfaces unwelcome but persistent.
Maksim moves through this environment like he was born to it. Which he was, before his world burned down. But he's relearned the language of wealth and power, slipped back into it like a familiar suit.
Victoria navigates these spaces with effortless grace. The way she smiles at Morrison. The way she references mutual acquaintances and shared experiences. She belongs to this world in ways I never will.
Me? I'm the street kid who learned to fight for food. The boy who stole insulin to keep his brother alive. The man who still feels hungry even when surrounded by excess.
An interloper wearing expensive clothes.
Maybe it's the same with this relationship dynamic. Victoria married Maksim. They're a real couple, bound by contract and now by something more. Alexei is easygoing enough to fit into any situation, his charm bridging gaps that others can't cross.
But what do I bring to this? What place do I have beside a woman like Victoria when all I know is violence and vigilance?
We enter the Founder's Suite. Private. Elegant. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the polo field. A table set with silver and porcelain and champagne already chilling in a bucket.
I take my seat. Force myself to focus on the meeting instead of the spiral of inadequacy trying to pull me under.
Morrison settles across from Maksim, adjusting his cufflinks with the particular vanity of politicians. He's younger than I expected. Maybe thirty-five. Handsome in a bland, forgettable way. The kind of face that polls well.
Lunch begins. Small talk about the club, the weather, the upcoming polo match. Morrison orders the most expensive items on the menu with the casual entitlement of someone who's never looked at a price.
I remember being ten years old. Fighting another street kid for half a loaf of stale bread. Coming back to Alexei with my face bloody and my knuckles split, but clutching that bread like it was treasure.
The contrast makes my chest tighten.
I don't belong here.
Then I feel a hand on my thigh.
The touch is light. Gentle. But it hits me like a detonation.
I look at Victoria. She's still engaged in conversation with Morrison, her expression polite and attentive. But her eyes flick to mine for just a moment.
You okay?she mouths, so subtle only I can see it.
I nod. Force my expression into neutral.
She starts to remove her hand. Without thinking, I cover it with my own. Hold it against my thigh for just a heartbeat. Long enough to say thank you without words. Long enough to feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of my pants.
