Ruslan’s mouth curved into something predatory.
“She cannot leave me,” he said softly, “unless there is a divorce.”
I peeled myself fully out of Dario’s shadow.
Not hiding. Not shrinking.
Even if my knees threatened to fold again, even if fever blurred the edges of my vision, I forced my spine straight.
I still clutched Dario’s hand—his grip warm, steady, grounding—but I stood on my own.
My fingers cut through the air with fierce, deliberate strokes.
“Then I want a divorce. Right now.”
The demand vibrated through my bones.
Ethan translated immediately, his voice carrying the steel I could no longer produce. “She wants a divorce. Now.”
Dario’s jaw tightened until the muscle feathered sharply beneath his skin. He didn’t look at me; he kept his eyes trained on Ruslan.
“Maybe send the papers to New York,” Dario said evenly. “We’ll make sure she signs them.”
Ruslan didn’t respond right away.
Instead, he moved.
Slow. Measured. As if every motion were calculated for effect.
He crossed the polished marble floor and lowered himself into a cream armchair opposite us. The pale upholstery was immaculate—until his blood-slick hands rested on the armrests.
Dark red drops fell.
One.
Two.
Three.
They soaked into the fabric, spreading outward in uneven blooms like grotesque roses.
Harlan’s blood.
My tormentor’s blood.
My rapist’s blood.
A vicious, secret corner of my mind whispered that I wished I had seen it. Wished I had watched Harlan beg. Wished I had seen the fear in his eyes when he realized he no longer controlled the narrative.
Wished I had been there when someone stronger than him finally closed in.
The thought disgusted me.
And yet it lingered.
Ethan stepped forward. His voice was controlled fury—quiet, but vibrating.
“Be considerate for once, Ruslan. She was in prison nine months. Kidnapped for two more. Tortured. Violated. And you still expect her to stay in the house of the man who set the entire nightmare in motion?”
