Chapter 24
Mary
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid . Mary, you absolute idiot.
The words stomp through my head in the same rhythm as the panic behind my ribs.
I press my heel into the carpet and try to make the space between my teeth big enough to swallow the thought whole.
It doesn’t work. The kitchen still smells like garlic, and the part of me that wants to believe normal things is furious and embarrassed and so, so small.
I can’t breathe. Can’t fucking breathe.
He told me I wasn’t here to “play house.” He said it like a verdict.
Like a sentence. Like the kind of thing that can be handed down, and you accept it because what choice do you have?
The syllables of it bounce in the room until they fill every quiet corner, until I can hear them in the bathroom tile, over the hum of the water heater.
I scrub my palm over my face until my skin prickles.
The pill tastes like metal in the back of my throat; tiny, ridiculous, a reckless, stupid thing to swallow because I trusted him and because I was too tired to plan better.
I had thought I was being careful. I had thought I was being smart.
I had thought— God, what had I thought? That maybe being useful would make me less disposable?
My stomach folds.
I walk to the bathroom without thinking and flip the light on.
The fluorescent glare is harsh. The mirror gives me back a face I barely recognize: pale, mascara streaked where I didn’t even notice the first salt trail, hair half-dry and lank.
Old Mary—the one who learned early to make herself small—slides under my skin, like she’s been waiting for the exact moment I give her permission to crawl out.
“You’re nobody,” I tell the reflection, because that’s exactly what I am.
The thought hits me like a slap: I was hoping. Actually hoping he’d want to keep whatever we might have made. I was standing there feeding him pasta and pretending we were something real.
The disgust rises from my gut, hot and bitter. Disgusted with myself. With my pathetic, desperate thoughts. With the way I let myself believe, even for a second, that I mattered.
My stomach lurches.
Two fingers down my throat, gagging until my eyes water.
Nothing.
Again. Deeper. I need to get it out—not just the pill, but everything. The stupid hope, the ridiculous fantasy, the feeling of belonging somewhere I never belonged.
My throat spasms, and I gag, and a sound that might be a sob squeezes out of me instead of the relief I wanted. There’s relief, but it’s not the right kind. It’s bitter and useless.
I spit into the sink and watch pink flecks swirl down the drain as if the water could wash away the whole stupid night. Instead, it just carries it into the pipes, into some dark place where I can’t follow.
Wait.
I stare at the pink-tinged water. The small white fragments mixing with the bile.
Fuck. The pill. I actually got it out.
My hands shake as I grip the marble countertop. The Plan B Anton bought for me—gone. Dissolved in stomach acid and vomit, swirling down his expensive drain.
I need another one. There’s a whole bag of them sitting on his kitchen counter. He bought them all because I asked him to.
But now I have to walk back out there. Past his men, who saw me crying. Past him. Ask for another pill like the pathetic mess I am.
My mind goes places it shouldn’t. What if I don’t take another one? What if, in a few weeks, there’s a test with two pink lines? What if there’s something growing inside me that’s half him, half me?
The thought makes my chest tight. A baby. His baby.
Oh God. Stop it, Mary.
Anton made it clear what I am to him. We fuck. That’s it. I’m not his girlfriend, not his lover, not his anything.
You’re nobody special. Stop acting like you matter.
More tears come, hot and stupid. Because even now, even after he cut me down in front of his men, part of me still wants to matter to him. Part of me still hopes.
Christ, what’s wrong with me?
From one bad decision to the next bad decision. That’s my specialty, isn’t it? Fall for a man who’ll never want me. Vomit up birth control because I’m disgusted with myself. Stand here crying over someone who sees me as convenient pussy.
Where’s my self-respect? Did I ever have any?
I push away from the sink and stumble back into the bedroom. My legs feel unsteady, like they’re not quite mine. The room looks the same as it did an hour ago, but everything feels different now. Smaller. Temporary.
I walk to the closet, stare at the clothes hanging there. Dresses I picked out, thinking I might need them for dinners, for events, for a life that isn’t real. When did I start hanging things up like I was staying? Like this was my home and not just another stop before everything falls apart?
Nothing here is permanent. Nothing here is mine.
I could be dead tomorrow. Friday could go wrong, and Anton could decide I’m more liability than I’m worth. He could put a bullet in my head and throw me in the desert, and no one would even look for me.
The thought should scare me. Instead, it feels almost… practical. Clean.
Outside, I hear them move—voices, low and familiar, footsteps getting closer.
A knock on the door.
Fuck.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, try to scrub away the evidence of my breakdown. My eyes are probably swollen. Puffy. Ugly.
Stupid Mary.
The knock comes again, softer this time.
I open the door.
Dima stands there, huge frame filling the doorway. Behind him, I can see Boris in the kitchen, eating pasta straight from the pan. My pasta. The pasta I made for Anton.
My eyes sweep the space. No Anton.
My heart drops into my stomach, and I hate myself for it. Hate that I’m looking for him. Hate that his absence hits me so hard.
“Boss had to go,” Dima informs me. His voice is quiet, careful. “Meeting with Lev. Business.”
Of course. Business. Because that’s what matters. Not me standing here looking like I’ve been hit by a truck.
He shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pockets.
“Boss wants me to continue training with you tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at 6 AM.”
“Great,” I manage. My voice comes out flat.
Silence stretches between us. Boris’s fork scrapes against the pan in the kitchen. The sound makes my skin crawl.
Dima’s jaw works like he’s chewing on gravel. He takes a breath, then another, like he’s buying time. His eyes flick down to his hands before coming back to me.
I wait. There’s something there I can’t read.
“Boss…” he starts, then cuts himself off. Tries again. “Boss isn’t angry at you.”
My chest tightens. “Then what is he?”
Another pause. His shoulders shift, restless.
“He’s never loved anyone before,” Dima says finally, voice low. “Doesn’t know what to do with it. And it scares him. What you make him feel.”
The words land sharply, leaving me staring.
“Scared men do stupid things,” he goes on, quieter now. “They push away the things that matter. Because keeping them close…” He shakes his head. “In our world, caring about someone is the fastest way to get them killed.”
I can’t breathe for a second. “What are you saying?”
Dima looks at me straight on, and for once, his expression softens. Not much. Just enough to make me see it—understanding. Maybe even pity.
“I’m saying you matter to him,” he says. “More than he knows how to handle.”
The second Plan B tastes the same as the first: chalky, bitter, like swallowing regret. I chase it with water from the kitchen sink. The penthouse is quiet now. Too quiet.
Dima and Boris are gone, leaving me alone with the wreckage of tonight. The kitchen counter is spotless except for one empty pan in the sink. Boris didn’t just eat my pasta—he licked the fucking pan clean. Every drop of sauce, every strand of linguine.
I dump the pan in with the rest of the dishes.
The wooden spoon clatters against the steel.
I grab the CVS bag—still heavy with the remaining boxes Anton bought—and shove it into one of the upper cupboards behind the fancy dishes I’ll never use.
The empty Plan B box goes in the trash where it belongs.
My hands move on autopilot. Rinse the pan. Wipe the counter. Put away the olive oil I left out like I was planning to cook here again.
Like I was planning to stay.
The dishtowel goes back on its hook. Everything perfect and sterile, like I was never here at all. Like I didn’t spend twenty minutes thinking I mattered.
I drag myself out of the kitchen, legs heavy as lead. Each step feels like walking through mud.
I stumble back to the bedroom and fall face-first onto the bed. Still in my clothes. Still smelling like garlic and humiliation. The mattress is too soft, too expensive, like everything else in this place that isn’t mine.
My chest feels hollow. Scraped out. Like someone took a spoon to my insides and left me empty.
Gordo materializes from whatever shadow cats hide in when humans lose their shit. He hops onto the bed with zero fucks given about my breakdown. Lands right on my back like I’m furniture.
“Ow.” I don’t move. Can’t move.
He walks up my spine like I’m a piece of furniture, paws pressing into my shoulder blades until I roll over. Then he plants himself on my chest. All fifteen pounds of spoiled cat parked like he’s my warden.
His green eyes stare straight into mine.
I groan and cover my face with my hand. “Great. Even you’ve got green eyes. Exactly what I needed—another reminder of him.”
I slap my own cheek lightly, muttering, “Stop it. Not everything is about Anton.”
Gordo slow-blinks at me. Cat for “Duh, human.”
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. “I fucked up.”
His purr kicks on, low and steady, vibrating through my ribs. It’s ridiculous how much comfort I get out of it. Real, solid, uncomplicated. Everything Anton isn’t.
I scratch under his chin, and he tilts his head, pressing into my fingers like a spoiled king. Purr gets louder.
More pets, peasant.
“You saw it all, didn’t you?” My voice is scratchy, the words scraping their way out. “Me cooking like some wannabe housewife. Acting like I belonged here.”
He headbutts my palm when I stop scratching.
“Right. Sorry. Your emotional breakdown can wait. Pet the cat first.”
A laugh slips out, broken but real. At least he doesn’t care if I cry into my garlic-smelling shirt.
He kneads at my chest, claws snagging in the fabric. Press, release. Press, release. Like he’s trying to dig the humiliation out of me.
“Dima says Anton’s scared.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Says he’s never loved anyone.”
Gordo’s ears flick forward. Listening. Or maybe just pretending to.
“Love,” I repeat, bitter. The word feels wrong in my mouth, like I don’t have the right to say it. “That’s what he said. Love.”
The cat chirps—actually chirps—like he’s mocking me.
“I know, right? Anton Malikov doesn’t love. He doesn’t even like. He fucks. He orders. He makes you feel like nothing and then somehow makes you want more anyway.” My throat tightens. “He doesn’t look at me like I’m someone to keep. He looks at me like I’m already temporary.”
Dima’s words won’t stop echoing. You matter to him. More than he knows how to handle.
My eyes sting. I press my cheek against Gordo’s fur, breathing in the dusty, warm smell of cat.
“What if he’s right?” My voice cracks. “What if Anton actually—?”
I can’t finish it. Can’t even let myself say it out loud. The idea is too dangerous. Too stupid.
Gordo yawns in my face, showing his pink tongue and sharp little teeth. Then he tucks his paws under himself and closes his eyes. Purr steady. Like none of this matters.
“Yeah. Conversation over,” I mutter.
But the echo of Dima’s voice won’t shut up. And the worst part? Some small, desperate part of me wants to believe him.