I paid a fucking fortune for this apartment. Convinced the previous owner to sell by offering nearly three times market value. It drained almost everything I had left after signing my empire over to Aslanov. All those offshore accounts, all those assets—gone. And for what? To watch my family live without me?
I told myself I’d grow numb to it. Focus on the mission: keep them safe, stay hidden, wait for the right moment to strike. But every day the knife twists deeper. Hannah’s laugh through the glass. Lauren’s smile when she thinks no one’s watching. Each moment I’m not part of carves out another piece of me.
The kettle clicks off. I pour the water, watching it turn black.
My routine rarely changes. Coffee in hand, I position myself on the couch by the window.
Most people watch television.
I watch them.
Every evening until the lights go out. Sometimes longer, making sure no one’s trying to break in, that no shadows linger where they shouldn’t.
They’re so close. Fifty feet of empty air between us. But it might as well be a chasm.
They live in their own world—Lauren and Hannah, complete without me. And knowing I don’t exist in it anymore, that they’ve built a life where I’m nothing but a ghost...
It’s worse than any bullet Aslanov could ever put in me.
I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Walking across that hall. Knocking on her door. Telling Lauren I survived. Letting Hannah know her father isn’t dead. But Aslanov was always out there, consolidating power, building his empire on the bones of mine. One wrong move and he’d come for them.
Now he knows I’m alive.
Which means they’re already in his sights.
Blyad!
I take a sip of coffee, the bitter liquid doing nothing to ease the familiar ache in my chest.
The hardest part was the beginning. Those first months after Hannah was born, when Lauren would pace the apartment at two in the morning, tears streaming down her face as she triedto soothe a crying infant. She wore the same sweatpants for days. Stared into space like she’d forgotten how to be present in her own life. Her smile—when it appeared at all—never reached her eyes.
I could see her fighting to stay strong for Hannah.
Failing.
Breaking.
All I wanted was to cross that hallway. Wrap my arms around her waist. Tell her I was alive, that she wasn’t alone.
But I couldn’t. Aslanov would have killed us all.
She’s different now. Stronger, maybe. Or better at hiding the cracks. Her hair changes—sometimes down, sometimes pulled back. She wears pantsuits to work, moves with purpose instead of that hollow shuffle from those early days.
She’s beautiful. Even more beautiful than I remembered, and the memory already haunted me.
Some nights I sit here with my coffee and let myself imagine what it would feel like to touch her again. To have her look at me the way she used to—like I was her whole world. The wanting is a physical thing, sharp enough to draw blood.
Then reality crashes back. She thinks I’m dead. She’s moved on. Or she will. It’s only a matter of time before some bastard realizes what I already know—that she’s extraordinary—and tries to claim what’s mine.
The thought makes my jaw clench hard enough to crack teeth. I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit imagining what I’d do to any man who touches her. Detailed, violent fantasies that would make Aslanov look merciful.
But I can’t. Not without exposing them to danger.
So I sit here. I watch. I wait.
I take another sip of coffee and glance out the window.
Dark tonight. The curtains are still open—she must have forgotten to close them before leaving. A lamp glows on thecoffee table, casting weak light across the empty living room. She sets it on a timer when she’s out late.
