I stop breathing.
He doesn’t.
“And your family home?” he continues, swirling his drink lazily. “Yours. Free and clear. No debts. No legal loopholes. No threats of repossession.”
My heart thumps, heavy and slow.
He sets his glass down. Taps the rim once, deliberately.
“I keep my promises.”
The words hit me harder than I expect.
Because they’re true.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Wow,” I say, my voice brittle. “That’s so reassuring. It’s great to know my husband keeps his promises when those promises involve me being legally bound to a literal fucking mafia kingpin.”
His lips twitch, and I want to scream.
“How generous of you, Konstantin,” I snap, “to inform me that my house belongs to me after you’ve made sure I belong to you.”
That erases the amusement from his face.
There’s something else now. Something I can’t place.
“Would you have rather kept fighting?” he asks, voice dangerously low. “Would you have rather drained your accounts, lost everything, watched your uncle sell your childhood home out from under you?”
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache.
Because that’s the worst part.
The absolute worst part.
If he hadn’t stepped in?
I would have lost.
Everything.
Another waiter approaches our table, this one younger, more nervous than the first.
“Excuse me, sir, madam, Chef has prepared a special amuse-bouche for—”
“Not now,” we snap in unison, our voices colliding in perfect, irritated harmony.
The poor guy freezes, eyes wide, tray clutched to his chest like a shield.
For a fraction of a second, Konstantin and I lock eyes across the table. Something passes between us—a spark of shared frustration, a momentary bond in our mutual annoyance. Almost like we’re on the same side.
The thought is so absurd I nearly laugh.
The waiter backs away slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a pair of wild animals.
I push back from the table, suddenly too hot, too trapped, too fucking done.
“No,” I breathe, shaking my head. “No, I can’t do this.”
