What kind of woman survives this?
What kind of mother carries this much loss and still stands?
The question echoed painfully inside my chest.
I didn’t notice the car slowing until it rolled to a stop.
The estate gates opened silently—security already informed.
Ruslan stepped out first.
He walked around to my side.
The door opened.
Without hesitation, he reached inside and lifted me out.
His arms wrapped around my body like I weighed nothing.
I instinctively curled into his chest.
Stinking. Filthy.
Broken.
And yet—
He carried me anyway.
Through the gates.
Up the grand staircase.
Past silent hallways lined with expensive art and heavy security.
Straight to our bathroom.
His steps were steady.
Unshaken.
As if carrying me through war zones and devastation was now part of who he was.
He set me down carefully on the wide marble edge of the tub.
Warm water already filled it.
Steam rose in soft, curling waves toward the ceiling.
Someone had prepared it.
Not randomly — but under his command.
Ruslan always anticipated what I needed before I could even ask.
The heat from the water shimmered against my skin, glowing softly under the bathroom lights.
For a moment, it felt almost peaceful.
