If I don’t go, Viktor will escalate. He always does.
I exhale, steadying myself. This ends with me taking responsibility—for my involvement, for my mistake. I started this. I’ll be the one to stop it.
I dress quickly, movements efficient, deliberate. In the garage, I hesitate only long enough to choose a car that won’t draw attention—dark, tinted, unassuming.
Then I pull out into the street and drive.
Toward Viktor.
The pin leads me farther from the city lights, past closed factories and abandoned lots, until the road narrows and the warehouse appears—an enormous concrete husk crouched under a broken streetlamp. I park and sit for a second longer than necessary, hands tight on the wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cools.
Cold greets me the moment I step through the doors. The air smells of dust and rust, old oil and neglect. My heels echo against the concrete floor, the sound too loud, too exposed. The space feels cavernous, empty in a way that presses against my ribs.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried.
I turn.
Viktor Mikhailov steps out of the shadows like he’s been waiting for me, coat immaculate, expression relaxed, smug. His smile curves slowly, practiced—something he’s worn in mirrors a thousand times, I can tell.
“So,” he says, circling me, eyes skimming over me like inventory, “you finally realized you aren’t cut out for betrayal.”
My pulse jumps, but I force my shoulders back. “I don’t want to be part of this anymore.”
He chuckles, low and indulgent. “And yet,” he says, stopping just behind me, “you still came.”
I stiffen.
He steps closer, his voice dropping, intimate and dangerous. “You really thought this was about destroying Sebastian’s gallery?”
My throat tightens. “What else is there?”
He laughs—sharp, humorless, the sound cracking through the empty space.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head. “This was never about art.”
I take a step back, my heel scraping the floor. “What do you mean?”
“Mikhailov blood runs deep,” he says, eyes gleaming now, something feverish lighting them. “Your precious husband humiliated my family. His networks cost us millions. His little forgery empire crippled the black-market auctions we controlled.”
The words hit me one by one, heavy and unforgiving.
I freeze.
Sebastian never told me any of this.
Viktor leans in, close enough that I can smell his cologne, sharp and expensive. “This,” he murmurs, spreading his hands to the empty warehouse, “was about erasing him. Professionally first. Then…entirely.”
My chest tightens, dread flooding in cold and fast. I came here thinking I could end this.
I realize, too late, that Viktor never intended to let me walk away.
“I trust Sebastian,” I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. “I don’t believe you. You’re a liar. A scammer.”
He stops circling me and tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he’s already solved.
