Understanding doesn’t make it hurt less.
I push off from the wall and head toward the bedroom to begin packing for another exile. Seventy-two hours minimum, possibly longer, depending on variables I’m no longer allowed to influence.
Just like the old Elara. The one who had things done to her instead of doing things herself.
I’d hoped we’d moved past that version of our marriage.
Apparently, I was wrong.
***
The safe house is three hours north of the city, nestled in the Catskills like a luxury cabin that happens to be equipped with military-grade security systems. Nikola drives me himself, which tells me more about his mental state than any conversation could. He doesn’t trust this responsibility to anyone else, doesn’t want my protection filtered through intermediaries or protocol.
The silence between us is heavy, loaded with arguments we’ve already had and accusations we’re both too tired to voice again. I stare out the passenger window at autumn trees blurring past, trying not to think about how this feels like another kind of funeral—the death of the partnership we’d barely begun to build.
“The team leader is Rebecca Santos,” Nikola says as we turn onto a gravel road that probably doesn’t appear on any public maps. “Former military, fifteen years of private security, completely clean background. She’s worked for my family before.”
“How many people?”
“Six. Enough to maintain perimeter security and respond to threats, not so many that the location becomes obvious.” He navigates around a curve that reveals the house—modern glass and steel disguised as rustic architecture, positioned to provide clear sightlines in every direction. “Full communications array, emergency extraction protocols, enough supplies for two weeks if necessary.”
“Two weeks is going to feel like a lifetime.”
“I said minimum two weeks. Be prepared for it to be longer. The timeline depends on variables I can’t control.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Marcus’s response, the effectiveness of our countermeasures, whether we can eliminate the threat completely or just force it underground temporarily.”
The honesty is devastating. He’s not hiding me for three days while he cleans up a tactical problem. He’s preparing for the possibility that this war could stretch on indefinitely, that keeping me safe might require keeping me away from him for weeks or months.
Maybe longer.
The team that greets us is exactly what I expected—professionals who radiate competence without warmth, people who’ve made careers out of keeping valuable assets alive in hostile situations. Rebecca Santos looks like she could kill someone with her bare hands while discussing the weather, which I suppose is exactly the qualification Nikola was looking for.
“Mrs. Sharov.” She extends a hand that’s surprisingly gentle despite obvious calluses. “We’ll take good care of you.”
“I’m sure you will.”
The tour of the facility is mercifully brief—bedroom with bulletproof windows, kitchen stocked for a siege, communications room that could coordinate military operations. Everything necessary for comfortable imprisonment disguised as protective custody.
When it’s time for Nikola to leave, we stand in the foyer like strangers shaking hands after a business meeting. No dramatic declarations, no tearful goodbyes, no promises about how quickly this will end. Just two people who’ve learned that love sometimes requires distance, even when distance feels like abandonment.
“Be careful,” I tell him.
“Always am.”
“Be smart.”
“Count on it.”
“Be ruthless.”
Something shifts in his expression at that—surprise, maybe, or approval that I understand what this war will require from him. “I will.”
He kisses me once, soft and brief and tasting like goodbye. Then he’s gone, driving back toward a city where menwith guns are hunting the woman he loves, leaving me in the care of strangers who’ve been paid to keep me alive but not necessarily happy.
I unpack quickly, methodically, trying not to think about how my clothes look lost in the oversized dresser, how the bedroom feels like a hotel room designed for long-term stays by people who don’t want to be there.
My phone has been replaced with an encrypted device that connects only to approved contacts. My laptop has been locked down to prevent any communication that might compromise my location.
For all practical purposes, I’ve disappeared from the world again.
