Today, the patience ends.
Tonight. His office. There’s an encrypted laptop in the bottom right drawer of his desk. Remove the external drive connected to it. That’s all we need. Do this, and we’ll have everything required to bring him down.
My hands shake as I read the message in the bathroom, door locked, water running to cover any sound. This is it. The moment where I either commit to betraying Dimitri or back out completely.
I should back out.
Should take this phone to him right now, confess everything, let him handle whoever’s trying to use me against him.
That’s what a real wife would do. What someone who actually cared about him would do.
I delete the message and pocket the phone.
Tonight, I’ll decide.
Dimitri is distracted all day, which makes everything both easier and harder.
Easier because he’s not watching my every move, not questioning why I’m tense and jumpy. Harder because the guilt gnaws at me in ways I didn’t expect.
We’ve been better lately. Since that night in the library when he actually apologized, actually listened, actually gave me back Diana and some semblance of autonomy. We’ve fallen into a rhythm that almost feels like partnership instead of captivity.
He asks my opinion on business decisions. Explains the politics behind Bratva dynamics. Touches me in passing—casual, affectionate, nothing like the possessive claiming from before.
And the nights…
The nights have been different. Slower. More focused on what I want instead of what he can take. He’s been proving something, though I’m not sure if it’s to me or himself.
It’s working. God help me, it’s working.
I’m starting to forget why I was so angry. Starting to see the man underneath the monster. Starting to believe that maybe this marriage could be something other than a gilded cage.
Which makes tonight’s plan feel like the worst kind of betrayal.
Dinner is quiet. Dimitri scrolls through messages on his phone between courses, occasionally sharing details about deals I’m starting to understand. I push food around my plate, appetite gone, mind racing through scenarios.
“The Williamsburg project finally cleared permits,” he says, cutting into his steak. “Felix thinks we’ll break ground by spring.”
“That’s good.”
“There’s a community meeting next week. I want you to come.”
I look up, surprised. “Why?”
“You’re good at this. Reading people, defusing tension, making them feel heard without actually giving them anything.”He sets down his fork. “When you speak, they listen differently than when I do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m the developer. The threat. You’re—” He pauses, searching for words. “You’re the human element. The proof that we’re not all monsters.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. “I don’t want to.”
“Then I’ll go alone and handle it the way I always have. Still, I think you’d be good at it, and I think you’d enjoy it more than you expect.”
He’s not wrong. The idea of actually contributing, of using my skills for something beyond decoration, appeals in ways I don’t want to examine.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
