My muscles locked.
Slowly — deliberately — I lowered the gun.
Not because I was afraid.
But because blind rage would get me killed before I achieved anything.
“Then explain this,” I demanded. “Why wasn’t she treated immediately? Why was she tied to a chair like an animal?”
His jaw clenched.
“Am I supposed to babysit the monster who killed my sister with one hundred and fifteen punches to the face?”
His voice dropped — dangerous now.
He pushed himself upright despite the clear agony it caused.
Bandages stretched.
Fresh blood seeped through.
His muscles tensed from pain — but he refused to show weakness.
“The same monster who sliced open my eight-month-pregnant wife?” he continued, rage now building. “Who cut her womb open with surgical precision? Murdered my unborn son? And then finished her while she bled out on the floor begging for her child?”
The words hit like gunfire.
“I watched security footage,” he said coldly. “I saw what she did.”
My chest tightened — but I refused to let guilt swallow me.
“That woman is lucky all I did was tie her to a chair and withhold medical treatment.”
His fingers tightened around the edge of the lounge.
“She’s lucky I didn’t give her the same death she gave them.”
Silence stretched between us.
“During the first forty-eight hours of our marriage five years ago,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the violent tremor beneath it, “you looked me in the eye and told me you believed I killed your pregnant wife.”
My fingers tightened around the gun but I kept it lowered.
“You didn’t question it,” I continued. “You didn’t investigate it properly. You didn’t search for proof. You decided I was guilty.”
Ruslan’s expression didn’t change.
He listened.
Cold. Calculated.
“Then,” I pressed, stepping closer, “you got a new lead. Evidence pointing to my sister. Which means one thing — you made a mistake.”
My jaw tightened.
“A catastrophic one.”
I inhaled slowly.
