Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kirill
"What do you mean you can't find her?"
The whiskey glass slammed down on the desk. Amber liquid splashed across the dark wood.
Boris stood in front of me—two meters of muscle, head bowed like a scolded child.
"Boss, we've searched everywhere. The nursing home where she worked, her brother's hospital, every person she might know—"
"Then keep looking!" I shot to my feet, hands braced against the desk, knuckles white. "She didn't vanish into thin air! Triple the reward. No—quadruple it! How far can a broke woman get?"
Three days.
Harper had been gone three days.
I'd mobilized nearly every resource the Orlov family had. Private investigators, street informants, cops on our payroll, even our FBI plant—all searching the country for one woman named Harper Evans.
Nothing.
She'd disappeared like a drop of water in the ocean.
My eyes drifted to the desk drawer.
How fucking ironic.
I'd convinced myself I couldn't let go of Genevie—that blonde doll, the only girl who'd smiled at me during my darkest years.
But now, now that I'd actually lost something—
I realized Harper had filled every corner of my heart.
She'd loved me so carefully, and I—
"Boss?"
Boris's voice cut through my thoughts. He held a file.
"The report you wanted." He set it on the desk, hesitated. "About Mrs. Orlov's brother."
Aiden Evans.
The boy I'd never met but helped kill anyway.
I opened the file.
"Aiden Evans, male, 16, died at 11:23 PM three nights ago at St. Mary Hospital from congenital heart disease. Family member—"
My eyes stuck on the timestamp.
Three nights ago.
The night I'd locked Harper in the basement.
I flipped ahead. Phone records.
Harper's phone.
Between 10:47 PM and 11:23 PM—from the moment she learned her brother was dying until he was gone—she'd called me.
Twenty-three times.
Every single call was rejected.
My hands started shaking.
That night, while I was with Genevie, on the other end of those calls, a woman knelt in a freezing basement, desperately dialing a number that would never connect. And her only family died alone in a hospital miles away.
Because of me.
"Kirill..."
Boris sounded far away, like he was speaking from another world.
"Get out." My voice came from somewhere deep and dark.
"What?"
"I said get the fuck out!"
I grabbed the whiskey glass and hurled it at the wall. Glass exploded. Amber liquid ran down the wall like tears. Like blood.
Boris practically fled.
The door closed. I was alone.
I stood there, chest heaving. Then I started destroying everything.
Files swept to the floor. Lamp smashed to pieces. Expensive pens, delicate ornaments, that fucking laptop worth thousands—all of it obliterated.
I destroyed until my palms bled from broken glass. But I felt nothing.
All I felt was the gaping hole in my chest.
The hole Harper left.
I'd thought she was an accessory. A contract wife to please my grandmother. I'd thought I felt nothing for her. Thought my heart belonged to Genevie.
But now, with her gone, erased from my world—
I realized how goddamn stupid I'd been.
The woman who cooked for me. Who came back to bandage my wounds. Who stayed despite being hurt over and over—
She was the one who actually loved me.
And me?
I locked her in a basement. Rejected twenty-three desperate calls. Left her alone when she needed me most.
Me. Kirill Orlov. New York's coldest kingpin. Just a fucking idiot who couldn't even figure out who he loved.
"Kirill?"
A voice from the doorway.
Genevie stood there in a white dress, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, looking fragile. Her eyes shone with concern, lips parted like a startled deer.
"Why are you still here?" My voice could freeze blood. "I told you to go to the new place."
She stepped into the study, carefully navigating the debris.
"I was worried about you." Her voice was syrupy. "You haven't slept in days, searching for that woman... Kirill, you're exhausted."
She reached for me.
I shoved her away.
"Don't touch me."
Genevie stumbled, hurt flashing across her face, but moved closer anyway.
"Kirill, I know you're upset." Her fingers crept toward my chest. "But trust me, everything will be okay. That woman... she's not worth this."
"That woman is my wife." Each word deliberate.
"I know, but..." Genevie pressed her head against my shoulder. "But she left, didn't she? She abandoned you. I won't. I'll stay by your side forever, cherish you more than that fat girl ever—"
Fat girl.
The words drove into my skull like a nail.
"Get out."
This time, disgust dripped from every syllable.
Genevie froze. "What?"
"I said get lost!" I shoved her hard enough that she fell, landing among the glass. "Listen carefully, Genevie Sterling. Harper is my wife. I have zero interest in any other woman. Now get out of my sight!"
Genevie sat sprawled on the debris-covered floor, face white. Her eyes reddened, lips trembling, the picture of wounded innocence.
"Kirill... how can you treat me like this... I thought you loved me..."
The door swung open. Olga walked in, cane in hand, two guards behind her. One held a thick stack of files.
"Madam Olga..." Genevie scrambled up, forcing a placating smile. "How did you—"
Olga ignored her.
She stopped in front of Genevie, thumped her cane hard on the floor, took the files from the guard, and threw them at Genevie's feet.
"Look for yourself." Olga's voice was poison-tipped steel. "See what you've done."
Genevie's face went white.
Papers scattered. The top one was a photograph.
I looked down. My pupils contracted.
In the photo, Genevie wore a revealing red dress, arms wrapped around a middle-aged man's neck, kissing him passionately. I recognized him—a Washington senator with serious political clout.
"What is this?" My voice came from an ice cavern.
Genevie's face drained of color. "It's... it's fake... someone photoshopped it to frame me..."
"Fake?" Olga laughed coldly, picking up another photo and throwing it in her face. "What about this one? And this?"
More photos spilled out—Genevie with the senator at a hotel entrance, in a private dining room, on a yacht... every single one damning.
"Genevie Sterling." Olga enunciated each word. "Still going to keep up the act?"
Genevie knelt on the floor, trembling. "I-I can explain..."
"Explain?" Olga crouched down, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look at me. "Explain how you actively seduced Julian? Explain where those 'domestic abuse' bruises really came from?"
Tears streamed down Genevie's face. "Kirill... I left you back then because... because my father forced me..."
"So." My voice was terrifyingly calm. "Whose baby was it? The senator's? Some other guy's?"
Genevie broke down. She knelt there, shaking her head frantically. "No... Kirill, you have to believe me... I really love you... everything I did was to get back to you..."
I watched her hysteria with strange calm.
Weird.
This woman used to be my first love, my only comfort as a teenager. I thought I'd hate her, rage at her, hurt.
But now I just felt sick.
Sick that I'd ever loved someone like this. Sick that I'd defied my only family for her, and the woman who actually loved me.
A thought flashed through my mind.
If Genevie could fake abuse, fake pregnancy, fake devotion, then that night on the stairs—
My blood turned to ice.
Harper had been with my grandmother the whole time. She was kind, timid—how could she push a pregnant woman in front of witnesses?
Why didn't I think of that then?
"Enough!" I cut off Genevie's excuses, walking toward her step by step. "One question."
Genevie backed up, fear flickering in her eyes.
I stopped in front of her, looked down at that delicate face. Once, I'd thought it the most beautiful I'd ever seen. Now it just looked grotesque.
"That night on the stairs." My voice was low, dangerous. "You threw yourself down, didn't you?"
Genevie's pupils dilated violently.
"I... no... Harper pushed me..."
"Liar."
I leaned in close, almost touching her face. I saw the terror in her eyes, the cold sweat on her forehead, her uncontrollable trembling.
"I've already had people pull every security camera from that night," I lied smoothly. "Stairwell, hallway, ballroom... every corner. Think I won't find the truth?"
Genevie's face went chalk white.
"No... you can't..."
"Last chance." I stared into her eyes. "Tell me the truth, maybe I'll consider letting you go. But if I have to see it on camera—"
Silence.
Long silence.
Tears ran down Genevie's perfect face. Her shoulders shook. Finally, she collapsed on the floor with a desolate laugh.
"Yes." Her voice was hoarse, broken. "I threw myself down."
My fists clenched. Nails dug into my palms.
"Why?"
"Why?" Genevie looked up, tears streaming, face twisted into a grotesque smile. "Because I love you too much, Kirill. I love you to the point of madness! I couldn't watch that woman take the place beside you. What right did she have? What qualified her to stand next to you?"
"So you framed her?" My voice dropped to something lethal.
"I just wanted her gone!" Genevie screamed. "I thought if she left, you'd come back to me. I did it because I love you!"
This was why I'd hurt Harper.
Fucking pathetic.
"Lock her up." I turned to the guards, voice colder than I'd expected. "Don't let her out until I find Harper."
"You can't do this to me!" Genevie thrashed. "Kirill! You'll regret this! I'm the one who loves you! That woman will never come back! She hates you! She hates you!"
I didn't turn around.
The guards dragged the screaming Genevie from the study. The sound faded.
I stood in the wrecked room, watching the sky darken outside.
Yes, Harper hated me.
She had every right.
But that didn't mean I'd give up.
"Kirill." Olga's voice came behind me.
"I'll find her." My voice was hoarse but firm. "Wherever she is, however long it takes, I'll find her."
Olga was silent for a long time.
"Then what?" she asked. "After you find her? Will she forgive you?"
I didn't know.
But I knew if I didn't try, I'd never forgive myself.
"I'll make her forgive me," I said. "I'll spend the rest of my life making up for what I did."
I walked to the desk, opened the drawer, and took out the pink Valentine's card.
Still the same. Except the seal had been broken. I knew what was inside—Harper's careful love, and the line she'd written before leaving.
"Kirill Orlov is a bastard."
Yes, I was a bastard.
But I'd become someone worthy of her.