I’ve always known Viktor Mikhailov was dangerous. Unstable. Opportunistic. A man who smiles like a friend while measuring where to sink the knife. He’s envied my influence for years—my foothold in the art world, the reach of my private dealings, the quiet power I’ve built without noise or spectacle.
But this?
This is personal.
Using my wife. Crawling into my marriage. Turning her pain into a weapon and aiming it at my throat.
My jaw tightens until it aches.
Sienna’s hand shakes in mine. I feel it immediately. I lace my fingers through hers and squeeze—firm, deliberate, anchoring. A silent command: stay here. I’ve got you.
She looks up at me, eyes bright with guilt and fear, and something in my chest fractures.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say, steady, absolute.
Her lips part. “It feels like it is.”
I shake my head once, slow and controlled. “He chose this. He orchestrated it. He exploited an old wound and dressed it up as justice.”
I lift her chin gently, forcing her to meet my eyes. “That makes him the enemy. Not you.”
Her breath stutters. She leans into me, forehead pressing against my chest like she’s finally run out of strength to hold herself upright.
I wrap my arms around her fully now, enclosing her, claiming space and ground and certainty. Inside, something cold and lethal settles into place.
Mikhailov didn’t just make a move.
He declared war.
And wars end only one way, by completely ending the enemy.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, like the words might finally change something if she repeats them enough.
I shake my head slowly. “I’m the one who is sorry.”
Her eyes flicker up, confused, fragile.
I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing over her skin, grounding us both. “He manipulated you using the one wound he knew I caused,” I say quietly. “I won’t let you carry the weight of my mistake.”
She exhales shakily, but I can see it; she doesn’t believe me. Not fully. Guilt is still wrapped tight around her spine, thorned and stubborn, refusing to loosen its grip.
I hate that I put it there.
I hate that Mikhailov found it and used it.
I kiss her again, slower this time. Not to claim. Not to distract. To promise. To anchor her to what’s real. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers for a moment, breathing her in like I need the oxygen.
“I won’t let you face this alone,” I murmur.
Then I rise from the bed.
The shift is immediate. The air changes. Something inside me locks into place—cold, focused, lethal. I reach for the document Mikhailov gave Sienna, spreading them across the bed.
Memory clicks into motion.
“They’re planning a coordinated collapse of my entire client network,” I say, voice steady as I scan the pages. “Multiple forged certificates sent under my name. Anonymous tips routed to Europol. They want me arrested, disgraced, finished.”
Sienna swallows hard. “I didn’t know it was this big.”
