Vincenzo sat behind it.
Black shirt open at the throat. Sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Forearms tense with restrained power.
His posture was controlled.
But the tension in him—it radiated.
His eyes locked onto mine.
A part of me finally broke.
It wasn’t Ruslan Baranov or the Spanish; it was my husband. I couldn’t tell if I should feel relief or brace myself for the inevitable—my doom felt certain.
He leaned forward.
Elbows resting on the massive oak desk, voice low and deadly.
“On our first night together, I drew three red lines—lines you were never to cross. One, you shall never attempt to flee. Two, you shall never betray this marriage with another man. Three, you shall never harm Violet.”
“I warned you that as long as you obeyed, your suffering in this house would remain limited. Yet now, Elena... you have broken two of them.”
I swallowed and lifted my chin, holding my ground even as my pulse raced.
“You say I crossed two red lines, but I only ever broke one: I tried to escape. I ran because you threatened my body, my womb.”
The silence stretched between us, dense and suffocating.
Every breath felt loaded.
He stood, slow and purposeful, his gaze burning into me, commanding, leaving no room to flinch.
The chair creaked softly as he pushed back and walked around the desk.
His steps were predatory.
He stopped in front of me..
Too close.
His presence filled the space, cutting off everything else.
“Did Violet lose the baby?”
He smirked, as if amused that I had not yet realized the judgment he was about to deliver.
“I suppose you would be happy if she did,” he said, his voice cold and sharp.
“How can you be so heartless, wishing harm on another woman’s child?”
He crouched suddenly, bringing his face level with mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath.
“You were bold to think you could ever escape me,” he murmured, “ You overestimated yourself.”
“I am not Ruslan.”
He narrowed his eyes and slid his hand under my chin, lifting it, sizing me up as if measuring my limits before the final strike.
