Let them whisper. I’m done hiding from my own story.
“Good morning,” I begin, and the room quiets immediately. “Welcome to Fashion Design and Sustainability. I’m Mrs. Sharov. I’m not a lecturer here—some of you may recognize me from my modelling days. Your lecturer has asked me to provide some insight into the industry, so I’ve prepared some discussions.”
The name still feels strange sometimes—Sharov instead of my maiden name. Still, it’s mine now, claimed and owned rather than imposed. Just like everything else in my life, I chose to keep it.
I chose him.
The lecture flows smoothly, though I’m not used to it. I talk about media manipulation, about how stories can be weaponized, about the responsibility we have to question official narratives. The students are engaged, asking sharp questions, and I’m reminded why I loved this work in the first place.
Not because it gave me prestige or security or a carefully constructed public image. Because it mattered, and because teaching people to think critically, to question authority, torecognize manipulation when they see it—that’s work worth doing.
When the class ends and students file out, I pack up my materials with deliberate care. The office they’ve given me is modest—nothing like the corner suite I had before—but it’s mine on my terms. No favors called in, no strings attached. I applied for this position like anyone else, went through the interview process, earned it based on my published work and teaching experience.
The scandal is still there in my history, impossible to erase. But I’ve stopped trying to pretend it didn’t happen. Instead, I’ve reframed it. Used it. Written papers about media manipulation and institutional corruption that drew directly from my experience without naming names or violating Nikola’s carefully maintained boundaries.
Turns out almost getting killed by a crime syndicate gives you unique perspective on power structures and information control.
My phone buzzes as I’m leaving the building. A text from Nikola:How was the first day back?
Me:Good. Students asked intelligent questions. Only one person tried to subtly ask if I’m married to a mobster.
Nik:What did you tell them?
Me:That my personal life is none of their business, but my research on organizational power structures might be relevant to their term papers.
Nik:Diplomatic. I’m impressed.
Me:I learned from the best.
Nik:Dinner at home tonight? I’m cooking.
The casual domesticity of the message makes me smile. Two years ago, if someone had told me I’d be exchanging textsabout dinner plans with Nikola Sharov, I would have laughed. Or run. Probably both.
Me:I’ll be home by six. Don’t burn down the kitchen.
Nik:That was ONE TIME.
I’m still smiling as I head to my car—a sensible sedan that I chose myself, not the armored SUV Nikola initially insisted on. We compromised: I drive what I want during the day, but there’s always a security detail following at a discreet distance. I don’t love the surveillance, but I understand it. Some threats never fully disappear; they just become manageable.
The drive home takes me through familiar streets, past the coffee shop where Nikola and I had our first meeting. I know now that nothing about that encounter was accidental—he’d orchestrated every detail, manipulated circumstances to put me exactly where he wanted me.
I should probably still be angry about that. Some days I am, but mostly I’ve made peace with the fact that we started in manipulation and somehow arrived at something real.
The penthouse no longer feels like a fortress. We’ve softened it over the past two years—added plants that I’m marginally better at keeping alive, art that isn’t just expensive investment pieces, books scattered on every surface. It looks lived in now. Loved in.
Home.
Nikola is in the kitchen when I arrive, sleeves rolled up, focused on something that involves more ingredients than I would have thought necessary for a simple dinner. He looks up when I enter, and the smile that crosses his face is unguarded. Genuine.
“How did it really go?” he asks, abandoning whatever he’s preparing to pull me into a kiss.
I lean into him, breathing in the scent that’s become synonymous with safety. “Really good. Terrifying, but good. I’d forgotten how much I love meeting new people.”
“You were brilliant at it.” He says this with absolute certainty, like it’s objective fact rather than opinion. “They’re lucky to have you back.”
“Even with my scandalous past?”
“Especially because of it.” His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing familiar patterns. “You’ve lived through things most people only theorize about. That makes you a better spokesperson.”
