I look at him and realize there is no answer he can give me that won’t make this worse.
“You let me trust you,” I tell him, jabbing a finger his direction. “You let me sleep with you. You sat in my apartment and listened to me talk about my parents while you held the truth in your hands.”
“I was trying to find a way to tell you that wouldn’t destroy what we had.”
“What we had was a lie! There is no version of this where you were protecting me. Don’t insult me by trying to convince me otherwise.”
He drags a hand over his mouth. “I know what this looks like.”
“It looks like you knew your father murdered my parents, and instead of telling me, you watched me. You followed me. You slept with me. You built this entire relationship on top of a grave and waited to see how long it would take before I found out.”
He says nothing, and that silence enrages me more than any lie could have.
I should throw the glass at the wall. I should hit him. I should do any one of the dramatic, satisfying things my body is begging for. Instead I stand there and look at him with every ounce of hatred I have, and that seems to do the job just fine.
“Say something,” he pleads at last.
“You want words?” I scoff.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” I brace myself on his desk and lean forward, making certain I have every bit of his attention. “Stay the fuck away from me. You don’t come to my room. You don’t touch me. You don’t use Tony, Boris, or anyone else in this house to get to me.”
“Polina—”
“I’m not done. I will never forgive this. Not next week. Not when the war is over. Not when you decide you finally have a better explanation. You made your choice, and now you get to live with what it cost you.”
“No, Polina, you don’t understand. I loved you.”
I blink at the past tense.
Maybe he hears it too, because his eyes go wide as he catches himself. “I love you.”
“Don’t,” I snap, turning away from him and back toward the door. “I’m taking this file to Dmitri myself. He can decide what to do with the Morozov side, the Kozlov side, and you.”
He comes around the table then, not close enough to touch me, but enough to make me stop and turn back.
“Please.”
Once upon a time, hearing Lev Morozov say please excited me. It satisfied me to my core. This time, it doesn’t move me an inch.
“You should have begged two years ago,” I bite back.
His mouth opens, but I don’t stay to hear the rest.
I tighten my grip on the folder and walk toward Dmitri’s office without slowing down. My stomach rolls once on the way, and I steady the file against my middle until it passes.
The file goes to Dmitri.
The pregnancy stays with me.
