“I’m not asking for forgiveness tonight, Elena.”
His tone softened — stripped of pride. “I know I haven’t earned it.”
The honesty in that statement felt heavier than any apology.
“But I am asking for a chance.”
My eyebrows lifted slightly.
“To prove I can be better.”
He gestured around the room.
“Starting with this.”
His eyes locked onto mine again. “Starting with tonight.”
The vulnerability in his voice was dangerous.
Because it felt real.
And I hated that it did.
I didn’t respond.
I couldn’t.
Words felt like surrender.
Instead, I turned my attention to our daughter.
She slept peacefully.
Untouched by betrayal. Untouched by politics.
Untouched by the war brewing around her birth.
Her tiny chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
The room felt smaller all of a sudden.
Not physically — but emotionally.
The dove-grey walls that once felt calming now seemed to close in around us like we were standing inside a confessional booth where sins could no longer be hidden.
Ruslan knelt before me.
Slow.
His right leg dragged slightly as he lowered himself, pain tightening his jaw.
From his back pocket, he withdrew something.
A slender dagger.
The blade caught the low light from the bedside lamps and flashed — cold and dangerous.
The handle was made of black obsidian.
