I rest my forehead against his chest, letting the truth of his words settle. He’s right—I am a better teacher now. More empathetic, more aware of the real-world implications of the theories I discuss.
The past two years have been about reclaiming my career, yes, but also about integrating everything that happened into who I am rather than trying to pretend it didn’t exist.
Celeste is a closed chapter now. Last I heard, she’d moved to Europe to escape the law. We haven’t spoken since she disappeared after Marcus Hale’s death. Part of me wonders if she ever really understood how close she came to getting me killed. Part of me doesn’t care anymore.
Some betrayals you recover from. Some you just survive and move forward.
“Tell me about your day,” I say, pulling back to look at him.
“Boring meetings. Legitimate business is remarkably tedious compared to criminal enterprise.” He’s mostly joking, but there’s truth underneath. Over the past two years, Nikola has been slowly transitioning his operations toward legal ventures.Not out of moral awakening—he’s still the same man who killed Marcus Hale without hesitation—but out of practical recognition that building a life with me is easier without constant threat of federal prosecution.
“Any interesting developments?”
“Dima’s replacement is doing well. He’s not Dima, but he’s good.” There’s affection in Nikola’s voice when he mentions his head of security. “I’m trying to convince him he’s good enough.”
“He’s earned it.”
“He has.” Nikola turns back to his cooking, and I hop up onto the counter beside him, watching him work. “He’s also one of the few people I trust completely. That’s not easy to replace.”
Trust. Two years ago, Nikola didn’t trust anyone—not really. He controlled, monitored, verified, but trust was a foreign concept. Now he has people he relies on, friendships that aren’t purely transactional. I like to think I had something to do with that shift, but honestly, I think he was ready to change.
He just needed a reason.
“What are you making?” I ask, eyeing the elaborate array of ingredients.
“Attempting to make,” he corrects. “That pasta dish you mentioned loving from the restaurant last month. I found a recipe.”
The fact that he remembered an offhand comment I made weeks ago, that he’s going to the effort of recreating something just because I enjoyed it—these are the moments that matter more than any grand gesture. These quiet demonstrations of attention, of care, of choosing to make me happy.
“You know we could just order from the restaurant,” I point out.
“Where’s the challenge in that?”
I watch him cook, stealing ingredients when he’s not looking, and feel contentment settle over me like a warm blanket. This is what I didn’t know I was missing two years ago—not safety or security or protection, but partnership. Someone who knows me completely, flaws and fury and all, and chooses to stay anyway.
“I love you,” I tell him, because I can now. The words don’t feel like surrender anymore, they feel like truth.
He pauses, setting down the knife he’s been using, and turns to face me fully. “I love you too. Even when you steal ingredients while I’m trying to cook.”
“Especially then,” I correct, popping a piece of tomato into my mouth.
After dinner—which turns out surprisingly edible despite Nikola’s concerns—we end up on the couch, my feet in his lap while he works through emails on his tablet. The domestic normalcy of it still catches me off guard sometimes. This man who once orchestrated my entire life, who killed people and dismantled criminal operations and married me in what was supposed to be strategic necessity—he’s now scrolling through mundane business correspondence while absently massaging my feet.
“Do you ever regret it?” I ask suddenly. “How we started. What you did to get me here.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, considering the question seriously rather than deflecting with easy platitudes. “I regret that I hurt you. I regret that you didn’t get to choose freely at the beginning. No, I don’t regret the outcome. This, right now, you safe and happy and exactly where you want to be? I’d do it all again to get here.”
“Even knowing how much I hated you?”
“Especially knowing that.” He sets aside the tablet, giving me his full attention. “You hated me and stayed anyway. You saw exactly who I am, what I’m capable of, and chose me despite it. That’s not manipulation, Elara. That’s real.”
He’s right. Somewhere in the past two years, we’ve moved beyond the forced proximity and manufactured circumstances. We’ve chosen each other repeatedly, consciously, with full knowledge of what that choice means.
I’m married to a man who has killed people. Who still operates in morally gray areas, who has resources and connections that most people would find terrifying. But I’m also married to a man who remembers my favorite foods, who encourages my career, who holds me through nightmares and celebrates my victories and never, not once, has made me feel like I owe him for saving my life.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Nikola says, watching my face with that unnerving ability to read my moods.
“That I’m happy,” I answer honestly. “That I spent so long thinking happiness meant safety and predictability and a carefully controlled life. But actually it means this—being with someone who knows all of me and loves me anyway.”
