"Or maybe she's who you've made me into."
The words came out sharper than I'd intended. I saw them land, saw the flicker of hurt he couldn't quite hide.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "That wasn't—I didn't mean—"
"You meant it." He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and I tried not to stare at the scars that mapped his torso. "And you're not wrong. I took you from your life. I made choices for you that weren't mine to make. Whatever you're becoming, I bear responsibility for that."
"That's not what I—"
"Let me finish." He caught my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "I took you. That's true. But what you've become since then—the woman who impressed Semyon, who refused to break, who came to me last night of her own will—that's not something I made. That's something you found in yourself."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to maintain the comfortable fiction that everything I felt was his fault, his manipulation, his doing. But I couldn't. Because he was right.
He'd created the circumstances. But I'd made the choices.
"I need coffee," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
His lips twitched. "I'll have some sent up."
***
We navigated the morning awkwardly, like strangers learning a new language.
He was gentle with me in ways I hadn't expected—pouring my coffee exactly how I liked it, asking if I was sore, offering me first use of the shower. Small courtesies that shouldn't have mattered but did. The Vasily I'd known before last night was intense, demanding, a man who took what he wanted. This version was almost tender.
I didn't know which one was real. Maybe both.
"I have work to do," I said after breakfast, needing distance to think.
"The real estate acquisition?"
"Semyon left the files before he flew out. I should get started."
"Of course." He didn't try to stop me, didn't suggest I stay with him instead. Just nodded and returned to whatever was occupying him on his phone, his expression shifting into the harder lines of the Pakhan dealing with his empire.
I retreated to the library and buried myself in numbers.
The acquisition was for a property in Athens—a commercial building that one of the Chernov holding companies wanted to purchase for development. The financials were complex, layered with subsidiary ownership and tax implications I had to untangle. It was exactly the kind of puzzle I'd loved in my old life, before everything changed.
For hours, I lost myself in spreadsheets and market analyses. I compared rental rates in the surrounding area, projected vacancy trends, calculated potential returns under different development scenarios. The work was familiar, grounding. It reminded me that I was more than just a body Vasily wanted, more than a prisoner in a gilded cage.
I was good at this. And being good at something felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
By mid-afternoon, I had a preliminary assessment ready—not as thorough as the Aegean analysis, but solid enough to demonstrate I understood the complexities. I was reviewing my conclusions when raised voices drifted in from somewhere in the house.
I set aside my laptop and listened.
The words were muffled, indistinct. But I recognized the tone: urgent, angry, the kind of conversation that meant something had gone wrong. I stood and moved toward the library door, my heart rate climbing.
The voices resolved as I approached the study. Vasily's, sharp with command. And another voice I didn't recognize, tinny and distorted—a phone call on speaker.
"—three dead, four more in the hospital. They came in through the back entrance, hit the office before anyone knew what was happening—"
"Where was security?" Vasily's voice was ice.
"Dmitri had men on both doors. They were professional, boss. Quick in, quick out. Knew exactly where to go."
"The leak."
