Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
FIONA
It’s been a week since that breakfast. A week since I last saw him.
And every day, it gets harder to pretend that I’m okay with that.
Some nights, I wake to the faint trace of his cologne clinging to my pillow.
Other times, I swear I feel the dip in the mattress beside me, like a ghost of his body was there and vanished before dawn.
But then morning comes and he’s still nowhere to be found.
His side of the bed remains pristine, like he was never there at all.
I don’t know if I’m imagining it. If my mind is playing tricks on me, weaving him into the empty spaces simply because I don’t know how to fill them anymore.
He’s become a quiet, yet insistent ache in the background.
The only part of him I have is his ever-present bodyguards, one car length behind me wherever I go, reminding me that even when he’s gone, he still owns every corner of my freedom.
But every night, I lie awake wondering where he is. Who he’s with. Whether his hands are on someone else. Whether his mouth is whispering to another woman in Russian, telling her all the things he’s never said to me.
Is he falling for her? Will he give her everything I told myself I never wanted?
I can’t seem to get the images of him with other women out of my head. It’s like a damn life sentence—seeing that, feeling the anger, sadness, and jealousy all wrapped into one insufferable emotion.
When did I start caring this much? Was it gradual? Slow enough to slip past my defenses without setting off alarms? Or did something inside me break the day I met him, and I’ve been bleeding out ever since?
I don’t know who I am anymore. I used to be sure. I used to believe in right and wrong. In justice. In the thrill of hearing “guilty” read aloud in court.
Now, all I feel is chaos.
You seriously need to get it together. Remember who he is.
Men like Aleksei don’t fall in love. They conquer. They consume. They leave behind nothing but wreckage, and I swore I’d never let myself become another broken piece in a long line of casualties.
But knowing something doesn’t make it easier to live with. A sharp pang stretches in my chest as I grip the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the endless stretch of road as I veer off the main highway, pulling into the gravel lot near the tasting room of the vineyard.
The second I park, I register the sound of music floating through the air. The quiet hum of staff outside setting up chairs beneath the pergola and arranging lanterns for what looks like an event.
For the first time in a long time, there’s life here. Real life. Not desperate hope or barely hanging-on optimism.
My throat tightens as I step out of the car and spot my parents standing near the patio, talking to two vineyard employees. My mom’s laughing at something, her hand resting lightly on my dad’s arm while he says something back, and she swats his shoulder with a grin.
They look happy, and it was all I wanted for them.
When they notice me, Dad grins and Mom’s eyes light up.
“Tesoro!” she calls with a wave of her hand.
I cross the gravel, letting them pull me into hugs, the smell of grapes and soil and old oak barrels wrapping around us.
“You look tired.” My mother brushes my hair off my face. “You work too much.”
“Or maybe it’s not the work,” my father mutters, glancing over at her with a grunt. “Maybe it’s il diavolo vestito bene.” The well-dressed devil.
I give him an exhausted smile. “It’s just been a long day, Papa. That’s all.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.
“You’re not happy.” He looks at my mother again, voice rising. “Look at her. You’re going to let this happen?”
She says nothing, just lowers her gaze and squeezes my hand gently.
“I’m fine,” I say, more forceful this time. “I promise.”
“No, figlia mia, you’re surviving. This is not right.”
I don’t have the strength to argue. Instead, I change the subject.
“The vineyard looks beautiful.” I turn toward the rows of green stretching down the hill. “There are so many people here. Are all the staff back?”
My mother nods. “Yes. We can pay everyone now. The deliveries, the vendors. Even the restaurant is opening for full hours this week.”
“And the outstanding bills?”
“All paid,” she says quietly. “He did what he promised.”
Well, at least he’s good for something other than mind-blowing orgasms.
But my parents don’t have to know about my complicated marriage. I’m just glad to give them this. I’ll let them believe I’m okay for long enough to secure their future. Then I can figure out how to walk away.
Even when I don’t know what I want anymore.
ALEKSEI
The punching bag doesn’t hit back. That’s the problem.
I slam my fist into the center again, the leather groaning from the force. Sweat drips down my back, the heat of the basement gym at Kirill’s pressing in, but I could be in a prison cell for all I care.
Every strike I throw is a curse. A prayer. A plea for silence in a mind that won’t shut the fuck up. Her face flashes behind my eyes, and I hit harder.
The soft groan she made when she said my name in her sleep.
A kick slams into the bag, rocking it on its chain.
Her scent in my nostrils, even though I never stay long enough to sleep beside her.
Another hit. My knuckles throb, but I don’t care.
Every goddamn night, like clockwork, I come home late enough to know she’s asleep and slip into bed beside her, just long enough to breathe her in, to feel her warmth against my chest. And before the sun rises, I’m gone again. Because if I stay longer, I won’t be able to leave.
I told myself it would be enough. That just being near her would quiet the monster inside me. But it hasn’t. It’s only made me want her more.
I don’t think she knows. Or maybe she does and pretends not to. I wouldn’t blame her. She should hate me. If anyone deserves it, it’s me.
“You’re going to kill that bag, brother,” Kirill drawls from the bench, where he’s slipping into his own pair of gloves. “Should we be worried?”
I grunt and land another jab. “You talk too much, like nasha babushka.” Like our grandma.
He chuckles and gets to his feet. “And you are running from your wife too much. We all have our problems.”
My eyes glare hard. “She’s nothing.”
The taste of that one word burns.
“Do you actually believe your own lies?”
“Maybe I should divorce her,” I mutter.
But the thought hits like violence every time I consider it.
“Then why don’t you?”
Because the thought of her not being mine—of her being with some other svolich, laughing with him, touching him—would split me open like a goddamn grenade.
“You don’t want her gone,” Kirill says, reading me too easily. “You wanted her in chains. To own her, control her. And you thought you wouldn’t feel anything. But it didn’t work out that way, did it?”
My teeth grind. “You tell me. How’s it going for you and the homeless girl?”
His expression twists, that flicker of rage flashing in his eyes.
“Ah,” I sneer. “You think you can push and I won’t push back.”
“That’s different,” he spits out. “She’s not my wife.”
“Maybe not yet. But it’s only a matter of time, right?”
“Wrong.”
Yeah, that’s what I once said about Fiona. Now here we are.
I throw another punch, harder this time. Anton steps in to hold the bag, while Kirill stalks to the other end of the gym and starts taking his frustration out on a different target.
We all bleed. Some of us just hide it better.
“I don’t get it,” Anton says, his voice distant. “What is it about these women that makes you all give a shit?” He stares like he’s studying a language he will never speak. “I want to understand.”
My mouth dries. Because how could he understand?
I’ve wondered what it’s like to be him. Incapable of guilt, rage, remorse. It must be freeing. Maybe confusing too.
“It is weakness,” I say. “You’re not missing anything.”
“Then kill her.” He shrugs.
I can’t. Because a week without touching her is already too fucking long. Because I watch her every day through security feeds at her office, stalking her with cameras, knowing it’s the only way I can see her all day.
And what kills me is that I want her to want me, even though I swore I’d never need that from anyone.
“Want me to do it?” he asks casually.
Something in me snaps. I grab his collar and yank him close, our faces inches apart.
“You even think about touching my wife, and I’ll carve you open. Ponatna?” Understand?
Anton nods slowly, absorbing it. “You are right. It is weakness.”
My hand drops. He doesn’t understand what she does to me. No one does.
And maybe it is weakness, but it’s also the only thing that feels real. The only thing that makes me feel alive.
“Fight me,” he says. “Maybe I can beat it out of you.”
Kirill chuckles from the ring. “My God, Anton. You’re such a romantic.”
Anton ignores him, eyes fixed on me in challenge.
“Fine.” I strip my gloves off. “Let’s go.”
When he hits me square in the jaw five minutes in, I welcome the snap of pain. Because it’s better than thinking about her. Better than knowing I’ll go home tonight, crawl into bed beside her for twenty silent minutes, and leave before the sun comes up.
Even better than admitting I need her more than air, and that I’m too fucked up to deserve any of it.