“Like what?” I asked.
My voice was dangerously soft.
“Like a woman who just let the man who destroyed her life fuck her again?”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“Or like someone who hates herself for still wanting it?”
His eyes flickered — something raw flashing across them.
“Or maybe,” I continued, stepping closer, “like someone who knows exactly how much more pain she’s going to cause you before this is over?”
That hit.
I saw it.
A brief fracture in his control.
His expression hardened — but not fast enough to hide the emotional impact.
“I never wanted—”
“Save it.”
My interruption was sharp.
Final.
“You don’t get to explain yourself tonight.”
I pointed at him. “You don’t get to soften what happened by turning it into regret.”
My voice dropped. “You lost that right five years ago when you signed the papers that sent me to prison.”
He absorbed it.
I turned away again.
My boots hit the stone path that curved back toward the main house.
The pool lights shimmered in the distance .
The estate looked peaceful from afar.
But peace here was manufactured.
Built on secrets and violence.
Ruslan followed.
His limp more obvious now.
Stubborn.
Persistent.
He refused to let distance form between us.
