I should leave. Should walk out of this office, this house, this marriage.
My feet don’t move.
He’s right about one terrible thing—I’m already here. Already bound to him in ways that go beyond legal contracts. Already carrying his child, already tangled in whatever this twisted thing between us has become.
I’m so tired of fighting it.
I shake my head. Can’t say it. Can’t admit that somewhere along the way, hate started mixing with something else. Something that feels dangerously like need.
He crosses the distance between us slowly. Stops just close enough that I’d have to step back to avoid contact.
I don’t step back.
“Hit me,” he says quietly. “If it helps. If you need the violence to process this. I’ll take it.”
“I don’t want to hit you.” My hands are shaking with the need to do something. To release the pressure building in my chest.
I shove him instead. Both hands against his chest, hard enough that he takes a step back.
He doesn’t fight back. Just stands there, letting me.
I shove him again. “You had no right—”
“I know.”
“No right to keep this from me!” Another shove.
“I know.”
“No right to keep lying and lying to suit your own ends.” My voice breaks.
He catches my wrists gently. Not restraining, just holding. “I know. I know, Elena. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix this.”
“I know that too.”
I try to pull my wrists free, but he holds firm. Not painfully. Just enough to stop me from retreating.
“Let go.”
“No.” He backs me against the wall, slow and deliberate, giving me time to resist if I want to.
I don’t resist. My back hits the wall. His body cages me in, hands still holding my wrists, pressed against the wall on either side of my head.
We’re breathing hard. Both of us. The air between us is thick with rage and desire and unresolved tension that’s been building for weeks.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, face close to mine. “Everything about you. The way you fight. The way you refuse to break. The way you look at me like you can’t decide if you want to kill me or—”
“Or what?”
His grip on my wrists tightens slightly. “Or let me touch you.”
“I hate how much I still want you,” I admit, the words tearing out against my will. “I hate it. Hate that my body doesn’t care about the lies or the manipulation or any of it.”
“I know.” His forehead presses to mine. “I hate it too. Hate that wanting you has made me weak. Made me compromise everything I built my life around.”
“Then let me go.”
