That, weirdly, seems to bother him more than anything. His gaze flicks to the notebook on the coffee table, the pen lying across it.
“And writing shit down, too?” he says. “Journaling, right? You and your little self-help projects.” His eyes cut back to the TV for a second, where Fabio is standing in the start gate, helmet on, focused. “Still playing your kids’ races on weekends?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And I’m racing better than ever.”
He snorts but stops himself, like he remembers the agenda: “I never truly appreciated that. Is that it?”
It didn’t land the way he expected. I feel almost sorry for him. However small this might feel, I know that for him, saying this feels like a self-help miracle.
“You didn’t,” I admit. “But it was wrong of me to ask that of you. Now I know, it’s real to me and it’s enough.”
He stares, incredulous, obviously me trying to be nice just backfired. “You hear yourself?” he demands. “Since when is ‘to me’ enough? I worked my ass off to get us into real places, meet real people. This—he gestures around the room—this is basically my place. I helped you get it.”
“You asked your friend about an empty flat,” I correct. “And shouted at me for an hour, when you learned Iwasserious about taking it and moving out.”
His eyes flash. “Wow,” he says. “Look at you. Miss Independent. Must be nice. Someone finally fucked you properly, is that it?”
The words hit like a slap before the slap. I go very still. A month ago, this would’ve sent me into a hole of shame I wouldn’t crawl out of for days.
Now I hear the sentence and, under the rage, I hear something else: desperation. A man realizing the old levers don’t work.
“My sex life is not up for discussion,” I say, each word careful. “And if you talk about my body like that again, you’re leaving immediately.”
He laughs, loud and ugly. “Listen to you. Setting boundaries,” he mocks. “Seems I was right about you getting fucked. But you really think he’ll stick around once he learns you suck at cock-sucking. Gosh, Zlata, you need a bottle of wine to open your legs. Nobody signs up for that twice, Bunny. They fuck you once, then they leave you for someone else.”
My throat tightens. I take a slow breath. “Whatever you imagine,” I say, “it’s still none of your business. And you need to leave. And if you think you can get me back by insulting me…”
“I’m sorry—” He breaks off, shaking his head like I’m speaking nonsense. “You’re insane,” he mutters. “Throwing away a man like me for what?”
He pushes himself up from the couch, closing the distance between us in three unsteady steps. The alcohol comes with him, hot and sharp.
“Peter,” I say. “You need to go home now.”
“Oh, do I?” he says, crowding into my space, towering just enough to be annoying. “You’re kicking me out? After all I’ve done for you.”
“And I’m grateful for that,” I answer, a warning light in my head making me tread carefully. My pulse is up, but my voice stays low. “But yes. I’m asking you to leave.”
He leans in, eyes glittering. “Make me,” he says, half sneer, half challenge.
“I will call the police if you don’t,” I say. “I’m not joking.”
He barks a laugh straight into my face. “Police,” he repeats. “For me? Come on. I would never hurt you. You know that.”
Seven years ago, that line was gospel. I clung to it every time he made me feel small. Tonight, it lands like a bad joke.
“You’re hurting me right now,” I say. “You’re in my home, drunk, ignoring what I’m asking for, and insulting me. That’s enough.”
He moves closer anyway, chest almost touching mine. The old panic flutters in my ribs, but under it there’s something new: anger that doesn’t turn inward.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he says softly. “Not you.”
Something in me clicks.
“You don’t get to talk to me like this in my home anymore,” I reply. “Not you.”
His eyes go flat. Then his hand moves.
It’s fast, not telegraphed—a sharp, shocking slap across my cheek. The crack of it is louder than it should be in the small room. My head jerks sideways, and it catches me off balance. The world goes white at the edge of my vision for a beat. I fall to the ground, banging my head on the kitchen counter.
