“I should go,” she says again.
I blink, trying to pull together my wandering thoughts. “Roman will drive you back to the estate. I’ll be home for dinner. Seven o’clock.”
She nods and heads for the door. But she pauses with her hand on the handle, looking back at me. “Dimitri?”
I look up at her. “Yeah?”
She hesitates, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. “Are we... okay? Not okay-okay, obviously. But are we going to be able to do this? Work together? Without you hating me the entire time?”
I consider the question carefully, because it’s not simple. Nothing about this situation is simple. Do I hate her? I thought I did. I wanted to. But watching her sit across from me just now, seeing the determination beneath the exhaustion, hearing the hurt when she talked about her father...
“I don’t hate you,” I say finally. And it’s true. I’m not sure when it stopped being true, but somewhere along the way, the hate burned out, leaving only... this. Whatever the fuck this is. “I don’t know what we are to each other. But hate isn’t it. Not anymore.”
She takes this in, her expression unreadable, but then she nods. “Okay. I’ll see you at dinner.”
She leaves, and I’m alone in my office again. But this time, the solitude feels different. It’s less like isolation and more like a pause. A moment to breathe before diving back into the chaos.
I pull up the security footage again. I watch myself cover her body, protect her and risk my own life without hesitation.
That’s not how you protect an enemy.
That’s not how you treat a hostage.
That's how you protect someone you...
No. I’m not going there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But as I watch her leave the building on the security feed, walking to the car where Roman waits, I realize something fundamental has shifted.
She’s not just an Ashford anymore. Not just insurance or revenge or a means to an end.
She’s Vera. My wife. My responsibility. And maybe—maybe—my ally in figuring out whatever fresh hell we’ve found ourselves in.
I don’t know what that means for us. I don’t have the slightest clue where we go from here or if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life by starting to see her as something other than the enemy.
But watching her disappear into the car, I realize I’m going to protect her.
From whoever tried to kill us yesterday.
From her own family if necessary.
From myself and my own destructive impulses.
From anything and anyone that tries to hurt her.
Because somewhere between yesterday and today, between watching her almost die and seeing her smile for the first time, she became mine in a way that has nothing to do with marriage certificates or peace treaties.
And I protect what’s mine.
Even if I’m only just beginning to understand what that means.
9
VERA
There are nine layers of hell according to Dante but I would like to include a tenth layer. And that’s the smell of eggs. Specifically, eggs benedict.
I’ve been sitting at the breakfast table for fifteen minutes, trying to breathe through my mouth, and not to look at the plate in front of me. I’m trying so desperately not to vomit all over the white tablecloth. The hollandaise sauce gleams in the morning light, rich and yellow and utterly repulsive. The smell (which would normally be delicious) fills my nose and mouth. I want to die.
