Who am I now? Not the girl who published that exposé, righteous and naive. Not the woman who agreed to help strangers destroy her husband.
Someone in between. Someone who doesn’t know which version wins.
I dress in jeans and a soft sweater, casual clothes that feel like armor against whatever today brings. The penthouse is quiet when I emerge—no Dimitri, no staff immediately visible. Just me and the oppressive weight of marble and money.
Coffee waits in the kitchen. Always coffee, always perfect, always timed to when I wake. I pour a cup and move to the windows, watching the city stretch below. Somewhere out there, people live normal lives. Make choices that don’t involve betrayal or possession or secret phones hidden in closets.
I hate them a little.
Movement in the courtyard catches my eye. I lean closer, squinting against the glare.
Dimitri kneels near the gate, his back to me. He’s still wearing yesterday’s shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair disheveled in a way I’ve never seen. His attention is fixed on something small, something that trembles in his hands.
I’m moving before I decide to, abandoning my coffee, slipping through the penthouse and down the private elevator that opens directly to the courtyard. The morning air is sharp,autumn finally asserting itself, and I wrap my arms around my middle as I approach.
He doesn’t turn. “Careful. She’s terrified.”
I crouch beside him, and my breath catches.
The kitten is tiny, gray-striped and matted with dirt. One of her paws is caught in wire from the fence, blood crusted around the metal. She mewls when Dimitri touches her, high and pitiful, but doesn’t try to run.
“How long have you been out here?” I ask.
“An hour. Maybe longer.” His hands move with impossible gentleness, working the wire free fraction by fraction. “She was caught when I came down. Probably all night.”
I watch his fingers—the same fingers that dug into my hips last night, that has wrapped around throats and pulled triggers—ease wire from torn skin with surgical precision. The kitten shakes but doesn’t fight, some instinct recognizing safety even through pain.
“Almost,” he murmurs. Not to me. To her.
The last bit of wire comes free. The kitten’s paw is mangled, blood fresh where the metal cut deep. She cries again, trying to pull away, but Dimitri cups her in his palms like she’s made of glass.
“We need a vet,” I say.
“I called one. He’s on his way.”
Of course he did. Dimitri Rudenko doesn’t wait for office hours or appointments. The world bends when he requires it.
The kitten settles slightly in his hands, exhaustion winning over fear. Her breathing is too fast, ribs visible through matted fur, but she’s alive. She made it through the night.
“Can I?” I reach out without thinking.
Dimitri shifts, transferring her carefully to my palms. She weighs nothing, all bones and terror. Her good paw kneads against my thumb, claws like needles.
“She’s so small.”
“Too small to be alone.” His voice is rough, scraped raw by something I don’t recognize. “Someone abandoned her. Left her here to die.”
I stroke her head with one finger, feeling the rapid pulse under fragile bone. She leans into the touch, eyes squeezing shut. Trusting me because she has no other choice.
My throat tightens. “People are cruel.”
“Yes.” He stands, brushing dirt from his knees. “They are.”
The vet arrives within fifteen minutes—middle-aged, competent, asking no questions about being summoned to a private residence before dawn. He examines the kitten on a table Dimitri produces from somewhere, murmuring assessments I half hear through my pulse.
“She’ll need antibiotics. The paw will heal, but she’ll always have a limp. She’s malnourished, probably weeks underfed. Someone had her, then dumped her.” He looks up. “You’re keeping her?”
I open my mouth. Dimitri speaks first.
