"Fuck you," I whisper to the empty room. To the ghost that won't leave. To the man who ruined me for everyone else without even being here to see it.
The shadows don't answer. But I feel them watching, patient and knowing, like they've always known how this would end.
That I'm never getting out. That I'm his.
Even if he's gone. Even if he's never coming back. Even if I spend the rest of my life sleeping alone and faking orgasms with men who'll never be enough.
I'm still his.
And I always will be.
Even if he never comes back to claim me.
35
DROGO
The car sits in darkness three houses down, engine off, nothing to draw attention. Black. Unmarked. London plates that won't raise questions if some neighborhood watch busybody decides to peek. We blend into the suburban quiet like predators in tall grass—patient, invisible, waiting.
I'm in the back seat with the laptop balanced on my knees, screen dimmed to almost nothing, the glow barely reaching my face. Live feeds flicker across the display—every room, every angle, complete coverage of Alena's house.
Yuri's in the passenger seat. Viktor driving. Both silent. Both smart enough to know when to shut up.
The front door camera shows movement. A car pulling up—black Aston Martin, expensive, the kind of car that screams money and confidence.
A man gets out. Tall. Brown hair. Green eyes even visible from this distance. Expensive clothes. Moves like someone who's never been denied anything.
My jaw clenches.
He walks to her porch. Stops. Bends down. Picks up the black rose.
My black rose. The one I left there at dawn this morning. Anonymous. A promise she couldn't understand but I needed to give anyway.
And this fucker picks it up. Holds it. Presents it like it's his.
My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack.
"Boss," Yuri starts carefully. "Should I—"
"Shut up," I say quietly.
Oliver knocks. Waits. Wine bottle in one hand, my rose in the other, wearing that confident smile like he's fucking Prince Charming.
The door opens. Alena. She looks exhausted. Hair a mess. Robe barely tied. Like she just woke up—because she did, I watched her sleep all day on the bedroom feed, restless and haunted.
But she lets him in anyway.
He steps inside. Presents the rose with a flourish. "For you."
She stares at it. Takes it. Her voice when she speaks is flat, sarcastic: "How nice."
He doesn't notice. Too busy charming his way into her living room.
I switch to the interior camera. Living room angle. He's already making himself at home. Setting down the wine. Uncorking it without asking. Pouring two glasses like he owns the place.
She closes the door. Tightens her robe. Sits on the far end of the couch. Guarded.
He doesn't care. Pours anyway. Hands her a glass. Sits closer than he should. Too close.
