Almost every evening, once the house settled and everything went quiet, I slipped out to a small jazz club in West Hollywood. It became my escape. The same worn leather stools. The same slow music filled with longing and regret. The same warm glow of whiskey behind the bar.
It wasn’t freedom—but it helped me breathe. It reminded me I still existed outside that house.
Tonight was no different.
The club was calm and low-lit, the air thick with smoke and music.
I was already on my third drink when I noticed him again—a man in his late thirties, maybe older.
He wore an expensive suit that didn’t try too hard. Nothing flashy. Just confidence.
His smile was smooth and practiced, but there was something distant in his eyes, as if he was always holding something back.
“Hey,” he said, sliding onto the stool beside me as though he’d always belonged there.
“Hi.” I didn’t look at him. I lifted two fingers at the bartender instead.
The glass arrived almost instantly.
I downed it in three quick swallows, welcoming the burn as it scorched its way down my throat.
Pain that I chose felt safer than the kind that found me anyway.
He watched me with that careful, observant expression he always wore—the look of a man who noticed too much and said too little.
“Elena,” he said gently, as if my name might break if he handled it wrong. “Are you ever going to trust me enough to tell me why a married woman comes here almost every night alone—drinking, unhappy, clearly carrying something she won’t say?”
I let out a quiet, humorless snort. Then I gave him the same lie I’d been using from the start.
“My husband sold a baby elephant,” I said flatly. “I begged him not to. He didn’t listen.”
I stared into my glass. “The mother was left behind. Alone. I used to watch them together—playing, staying close. I’ll never see that again. And it hurts more than it should.”
It wasn’t entirely untrue. Ruslan had sold Luna’s calf without hesitation, despite my tearful, furious pleading.
I could still see the way the mother elephant had circled the empty enclosure, low mournful sounds echoing through the estate. The memory burned like acid.
The man chuckled, unconvinced, crossing one leg over the other. “People love animals, sure. But nobody grieves an elephant for three weeks straight.” He tilted his head, studying me. “Come on. What’s the real story?”
I stared at the bottles lined up behind the bar—labels from places I’d never been, lives I’d never lived.
My voice came out flat, stripped of emotion. “My husband doesn’t care that his wife comes to a club alone almost every night.” I paused, letting the truth settle between us. “That tells you everything you need to know about the kind of man he is.”
Silence stretched. Heavy. Loaded.
The saxophone wailed softly in the background, a sound like heartbreak given breath.
Then, almost casually—as if mentioning the weather—I added, “His name is Ruslan Baranov. Heard of him?”
The temperature around us seemed to plummet.
I finally turned to look at him.
He’d frozen mid-motion, glass suspended halfway to his lips. Color drained from his face, his pupils blown wide with instant, unmistakable recognition.
The easy confidence evaporated, replaced by the sharp awareness of a man who had just realized he’d wandered far too close to something lethal.
“You’re...” He swallowed hard. “You’re the Greek legend’s wife?”
