It’s like swallowing broken glass. The reaction pisses me off as much as it confuses me.
I straighten up and put space between us. “Whatever fairy tale you’re spinning—stop. I’m not Prince Charming.”
The pan clatters as she sets it down too hard. For a second, her jaw works like she’s chewing words back, but then she shakes her head, laughs bitterly under her breath.
“Jesus, Anton. You think I don’t know where I stand? You think I forgot that I’m here because youputme here?”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and that’s when I see it. The shine in her eyes. The way her breath hitches just slightly.
Fuck.
“Mary—”
But it’s too late. The first tear spills over, tracks down her cheek like an accusation. She swipes at it fast, angry, like she can erase what I just saw. What I just did.
“Forget it,” she whispers, turning back to the stove. “Just… forget it.”
Another tear falls. Then another.
My chest goes tight. I want to move toward her, want to fix this, but I don’t know how. Don’t know if I should. This is what I wanted, right? Distance. Lines drawn in permanent ink.
So why does watching her cry feel like someone’s carving out my insides with a dull blade?
The elevator dings.
No. Not now. Not fucking now.
The penthouse door slides open, and boots echo on marble. Multiple sets. Heavy footsteps that mean business.
“Boss?” Lev’s voice carries from the entryway. “We smell food.”
He rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops. Takes in the scene: Mary with tears streaming down her face, me standing there like an asshole with my arms crossed, the domestic wreckage of what was supposed to be a simple midnight meal.
Behind Lev, Boris appears, then Dima. All three of my men taking in the tableau like it’s some kind of fucked-up theater performance.
Mary’s face goes white. Then red. Then white again.
“Oh God,” she breathes.
She pushes past me, past all of us, her bare feet slapping against the marble as she runs toward the bedroom. The door slams so hard it rattles the fucking walls.
My left eye twitches. Once. Sharp and involuntary, like someone just drove a knife between my ribs and twisted.
I’ve been shot. Stabbed. Beaten half to death in warehouse basements. But this—watching her run from me, from them, from the mess I just made of something good—this is different.
This cuts deeper than anything that’s ever touched me.
Lev shifts his weight, still taking in the scene. The pasta cooling on the stove. The CVS bag on the counter. The ghost of her bare feet on marble.
“Well,” he says finally, voice dry as sand. “That went well.”
I can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but stand here with my chest caving in and my eye doing that fucking twitch again.
And that’s when I know I’m fucked.
Completely, irreversibly fucked.
Because Anton Malikov doesn’t feel things like this. Doesn’t care if women cry or run away or slam doors. Doesn’t stand in his kitchen at midnight, feeling like his chest is full of broken glass because he hurt someone who was only trying to take care of him.
