"Does she know who you are?"
"No."
"Does she know who her father is?"
"No. Or if she does, she's chosen not to see it."
"And you thought—what? That you could keep her in a bubble? That the war wouldn't eventually touch her?" Dmitri turns, and his eyes are cold. "You've compromised yourself, Misha. Compromised this family. For what? A few months of playing house with a woman you can never have?"
"I know." My voice is hollow. "I know."
"End it."
"Dmitri—"
"End it tonight." He crosses back to his desk, dismissing me. "Whatever you feel for this woman, it doesn't matter. She's a liability now. If the Benedettis find out you've been with her, they'll use her against us. If our enemies find out, they'll use her against you. She's not safe anymore—not with you, not because of you."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he's wrong, that I can protect her, that I will burn the world before I let anyone touch her.
But he isn't wrong.
Being with me has painted a target on her back. Every day I stay is another day she's in danger. From her father's enemies. From my family's enemies. From the war that is coming whether I want it or not.
I have to let her go.
It's the only way to keep her alive.
I go to her apartment that night.
She opens the door in sweatpants and one of my shirts—stolen weeks ago, worn soft from washing. Her face lights up when she sees me.
"Misha! I didn't know you were coming. I would have—"
She stops, reading something in my expression. The light in her eyes dims.
"What's wrong?"
I step inside, closing the door behind me. She backs up instinctively, and the distance between us feels like miles.
"I can't do this anymore," I say.
The words fall like stones into still water.
"Can't do what?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"This. Us." I keep my face blank, my voice steady, even as something inside me cracks and bleeds. "It was fun, Bianca. But it's run its course."
"Run its course?" She shakes her head, disbelieving. "Four months. Four months of—of dinners and dancing and you telling me I make you feel things you haven't felt in years. And now it's just... over? Because it's 'run its course'?"
"Yes."
"That's not an answer!" Her voice rises, cracking. "Tell me what changed. Tell me what I did wrong. Tell mesomething, Misha, because I don't—I can't—"
"You didn't do anything wrong." That, at least, is true. "I'm just not the man you think I am."
"Then who are you?"
I look at her—this beautiful, brilliant woman who talks about hearts like they're holy—and I give her the only honest thing I can.
