Chapter 13 Nadya #2
“His vitals have stabilized, but he’s showing early signs of cardiomyopathy,” the lead physician said gently. “We need to run full genetic panels. There may be an underlying congenital factor.”
I nodded numbly.
Then came the price.
Bloodwork. Imaging. Heart scans. Genetic mapping. Thousands of dollars—just to know what we were dealing with. And then, possibly…more.
I closed my eyes beside his bed, trying not to cry again. Trying not to think about the man who has more money than he can spend in a lifetime. The same man who looked at me last night and couldn’t remember the moment he took everything from me.
Now, back in my room, the sheets still smell like him.
Like his skin. Like sweat and vodka and anger and a kiss I wish I hadn’t wanted. I curl tighter into myself and press my hand over my heart, willing it to stay quiet. Because I can’t afford to feel anything right now.
I can’t afford to break. Not when my son might be dying.
I stare at the screen for a full minute before I do the unthinkable.
I dial his number.
It rings twice.
“Nadya,” Pyotr answers, voice oily with false warmth. “You’re alive, I see.”
“I need money,” I say without preamble. “Now.”
A pause. Then a soft chuckle, the kind that makes my skin crawl. “My, no pleasantries? Married life already turned you cold, moya devochka?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Well,” he sighs, “you’ll have to be patient. This isn’t what we agreed on.”
My grip on the phone tightens. “What exactly did we agree on, Papa? You sold me to the highest bidder like a prize goat. You don’t get to talk about fairness.”
“That goat,” he says lazily, “was meant to secure both our futures. You act like I tossed you into some ghetto whorehouse. You’re in a palace, aren’t you?”
“My son is in the hospital.”
That finally shuts him up.
I take the silence and twist the knife. “He needs testing. Urgently. You told me I’d get money when I needed it.”
“When he transfers it,” Pyotr mutters. “You think he paid up already? That bastard has a thousand conditions. Probably wants to keep you in line first—”
“You’ll wire something now,” I cut in, my voice low, dangerous. “Because if you don’t, I’ll walk straight into Konstantin’s office and tell him everything. About the kids. About what you’ve done. About what you’re still doing.”
“You wouldn’t dare—”
“Try me.”
There’s a beat of pure, blistering silence.
Then—
“I’ll send what I can,” he growls.
He hangs up.
The ping comes a few minutes later.
A wire transfer—small, barely enough to cover the first set of tests. But it’s something.
Except…it’s not from Pyotr.
I frown as I check the details. The money’s been sent from an unfamiliar personal account under the name Vadim S. Polzin. The name means nothing to me, but it screams one thing loud and clear—Pyotr didn’t use his own funds. He doesn’t have funds. He borrowed this from someone.
I feel sick.
He’s gotten himself in deeper than I thought.
Of course he has.
And me—I was stupid enough to leave the money in his hands. I should’ve demanded an airtight agreement, something in writing that would’ve sent the money to me, not him. Something legally binding. But I was too desperate, too rushed. Too scared. I didn’t think he’d sink this low, this fast.
I thought Nikolai had more time.
I forward the money to the hospital and text Irina: Transfer’s done. Tell them to start the tests.
I need air. And not the suffocating kind that presses behind gilded windows and chandeliered ceilings.
I need sky.
So I slip out of the house quietly, my boots crunching over gravel as I walk the long path that winds behind the estate. The garden gives way to something wider, more open. Sparse trees, a flat clearing, and the low, rhythmic thud of shots fired in the distance.
I follow the sound.
It leads me to Konstantin.
He stands with his back to me, legs apart, shoulders squared, arms raised in perfect form as he fires into a set of metal targets arranged across the yard. The sun catches the sharp lines of his profile, his movements precise, unhurried, lethal.
I should turn around.
But I don’t.
Instead, I stay rooted, watching him eject the magazine and reload with an ease that makes something dark curl in my stomach. There’s a cold beauty in it—the calm way he handles violence, like it’s second nature.
He senses me, and his body stills.
Without looking over his shoulder, he speaks. “You want to try?”
I blink. “What?”
He turns, finally, his gaze locking with mine. “You’ve been watching long enough. Come here.”
I hesitate. But something about the way he says it—low, coaxing, a challenge—pulls me forward. He holds out the gun, and I take it, careful with the weight.
“It’s heavier than I thought,” I murmur.
“You’ll get used to it.”
He steps in behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his chest against my back.
“Like this,” he says near my ear, his breath brushing the edge of my cheek. “Finger here. Support here.”
My skin sparks everywhere he touches.
I try to ignore it.
And fail miserably.
I shift the gun slightly in my hands, letting the barrel wobble off-target on purpose.
“I don’t know if I’m doing this right,” I murmur, letting my voice tilt just enough to sound unsure.
Konstantin’s hands return to my waist. “Then let me help you,” he says, almost too easily. But I hear the undertone. The interest. The edge of suspicion that creeps into his voice like a thread he wants to tug.
He steps in closer. “Keep your feet apart,” he murmurs, nudging my ankle with his boot. “Balance. Straighten your spine.”
I feel every point of contact between us like a current through my bloodstream.
“You’re tense,” he adds near my ear, his breath skimming across my cheek. “Relax. You’re not about to assassinate anyone.”
I give him a small, tight smile. If only you knew.
“I’m trying,” I say, lowering my lashes.
“Let me.” His hand slides over mine again, adjusting the angle. His palm rests on my hip for a moment longer than necessary. He smells like gunpowder and something more expensive. Musk, danger, steel.
“You’ve really never held a gun before?” he asks, voice low.
I glance back at him over my shoulder. “Should I have?”
A flicker of amusement flashes in his eyes. “No. But you don’t exactly behave like a girl who grew up protected.”
“Maybe I didn’t.”
His gaze lingers. On my mouth. On my jaw. Then he steps back, giving me space to fire again.
I let the shot stray just off-center.
He lifts a brow. “You’re a fast learner.”
I shrug. “I’m motivated.”
His smirk deepens. “Remind me never to underestimate you.”
You already have, I think, but I say nothing.
Instead, I hand the gun back to him and take a step away, pretending I’m unaffected. As if my pulse isn’t thundering in my ears, as if my body doesn’t remember every place he touched.
“Thanks for the lesson,” I say over my shoulder.
But when I glance back, he’s still staring at me—like he’s trying to figure out which part of me is real.