I flinch, sitting up straighter. I expect Agent Miller with his sneer and his handcuffs, or a lawyer telling me to plead guilty.
Instead, Konstantin walks in.
He enters with the casual, terrifying grace of a predator entering a cage he owns. He’s holding a thick file folder. The door closes behind him.
"You," I whisper. I stand, chair screeching against the floor. "You let them take me. You stood there and watched."
"Sit down," he says calmly, pulling out the chair opposite me.
"No! Get me a lawyer! You said you owned this city. You said you were the King. Why am I in here?"
"Because you are a criminal," he says, tossing the file onto the table. "And criminals go to jail."
He sits down, unbuttoning his suit jacket, untouched by the chaos drowning me. He crosses one leg over the other, inspecting the shine on his shoes.
"I’m here because you forced me to sign those papers," I remind him, slamming my hands on the metal table. "You drugged me. You made me authorize that shipment!"
"Can you prove that?" he asks, looking up. His blue eyes are empty of sympathy. "Can you prove you were drugged? Or will the court just see the signature of the CEO of Blackwood Shipping on a manifest for illegal chemicals?"
My mind races, looking for an escape.I can tell them,I think desperately.I can tell the judge he forced me.
But then the crushing reality settles in. Who would believe me? I’m the CEO. The buck stops with me. The signature is mine. The shipment was on my company’s boat. To the law, ‘I didn't know’ isn't a defense; it's negligence.
And accusing Konstantin Morozov, a man with an army of lawyers, without a shred of physical proof? It would sound like the desperate ramblings of a guilty woman trying to pin her crimes on a shareholder.
I have no toxicology report. No witnesses. Nothing but my word against a mountain of paper evidence.
I go still.
"The Atlantic Loop," he says, tapping the file. "Federal prison time for that is twenty years. Minimum. You’ll be forty-five whenyou get out… if you survive inside. Prisons here aren’t kind to women like you, Helena. You’re soft. You’ll break in a week."
"You did this," I realize, the horror dawning on me. "You tipped them off."
"I didn't tip them off," he corrects me. "I just didn't stop them."
He leans forward.
"The agents outside? They’re real. The warrant? It’s real. You’re in very deep trouble. And your father... he can't help you. He’s hiding in a hole with the Italians. He saved himself, like he always does."
"Then help me," I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. I hate the weakness in my voice, but I’m terrified. I can’t go to prison. "Please."
"I can't," he says, leaning back. "Legally, I’m a shareholder. If I interfere, I become an accomplice. Unless..."
He lets the word hang in the air.
"Unless what?" I ask, desperate.
"Unless our relationship changes."
He reaches into his pocket and extracts a small, black box that he sets on the metal table.
Next to it, he places a single sheet of paper.
The heading all but glares at me.
State Registry - Marriage License.
It isn't just an application. It has the raised, gold seal of the High Court stamped at the bottom. The Registrar’s signature is already scrawled on the officiant's line, approving the union in advance.
