Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kirill
"Found her."
Boris's voice carried a careful edge when he placed the file in front of me. Seven months of watching me waste away, watching me unravel—he'd learned to tread lightly.
"What did you say?" My voice came out raw, like someone had their hands around my throat.
"Harper. Goes by Luna now." He crossed to my desk and set down a manila envelope. "She's working as a caregiver in San Francisco."
I tore the envelope open. Documents and photos spilled out. When I saw the top photo, my heart damn near stopped.
Her.
My Harper.
The woman in the photo stood outside a care facility, California sun pouring down on her like liquid gold, bathing her in warmth. She was turned toward something outside the frame, smiling—a smile so bright it hurt to look at, an expression I'd never seen on her face.
Harper had her hair up, the ends curling playfully. She wore makeup. Her lips were painted a soft rose.
She had on a pale blue dress that hugged her waist just right, showing off curves I'd forgotten she had. She used to hide in oversized hand-me-downs, making herself invisible.
And now... she was breathtaking. So beautiful it made my chest ache.
Did that mean she was better off without me?
"The address?"
"All in there." Boris paused, choosing his words. "She's... there's a man."
"What?"
"According to our source, Mrs. Orlov is currently living with a man." Boris looked down, wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Who is he?" My voice came out too calm. Dangerously calm.
"Still digging. We don't have much—just that he's blonde."
I said nothing.
The office fell silent as a tomb.
I stared at the photo in my hands, at Harper's radiant smile.
Who was she smiling at?
That man?
Something bitter and acidic rose from deep in my chest, like someone had reached in and crushed my heart in their fist.
Boris retreated quickly, closing the door behind him with excruciating care, afraid to make a sound.
I sat alone in the empty office, staring at that photo, thoughts in chaos.
She found someone else.
In the seven months since she left, she'd found someone else.
Should I be angry? Yes. She was my wife. We weren't divorced. But what right did I have to be angry? Who locked her in a basement? Who hung up on every call the night her brother died? Who pushed her away, straight into another man's arms?
Me.
Me, you fucking asshole.
I rubbed my temples. They were pounding.
Maybe... maybe she was happy with him. Maybe he'd take care of her, wouldn't hurt her like I did. Maybe I should let her go. Let her live the life she wanted.
Should I let her go?
The thought barely surfaced before another, stronger voice crushed it down.
No.
I couldn't.
I'd spent seven months searching for her, destroying myself in the process—not to let her go the second I found her. I had too much to say to her. Too many wrongs to make right. At least... at least let me tell her to her face how much I regretted it. How much I loved her.
If after that she still chose to leave, I'd accept it.
But until then—until then, I couldn't give up.
I didn't bring any men. Didn't even bring Boris.
This wasn't a business deal, wasn't a mob hit—this was the most important apology of my life, and I didn't want anyone witnessing me lose every shred of dignity I had left.
The cab stopped in front of an ordinary apartment building. Older construction, painted a warm cream, with a row of mailboxes downstairs and a small patch of reasonably well-kept shrubs.
Plain. Almost shabby.
I stared at that off-white door, heart hammering like some kid visiting a girl's place for the first time.
She was in there. She and that man were in there.
The thought made my stomach clench.
Pathetic.
I could put a bullet in someone's skull without blinking, but right now I was terrified—terrified she wouldn't want to see me, terrified she'd already erased me from her heart completely.
I got out of the cab, stood at the bottom of the stairs for a full ten minutes before I worked up the nerve to climb them. I took a deep breath, straightened my collar—I'd worn a fresh shirt, even put on cologne, shaved, trying to look less like something that crawled out of hell.
Though I knew none of that would probably matter.
Standing outside that ordinary apartment door, I took a deep breath and knocked.
Soft footsteps inside. My heart jumped into my throat.
The door opened.
I froze.
The woman standing there... was that Harper?
She was even more beautiful than in the photo. She wore a simple white cotton dress that traced tempting curves—Christ, when did she become so... so goddamn gorgeous?
"Harper..." I forced the word out, throat like sandpaper.
Harper's pupils contracted sharply.
The next second, she tried to slam the door. Instinct made me shove my arm out, bracing it against the frame, using my body weight to stop the door from closing.
"Wait! Harper, please—"
"Let go!" Harper's voice held clear panic and resistance. "Let go of this door!"
She pushed hard, trying to force me out. But how could she match my strength?
I held the door firm, nearly wedging myself into the gap.
"Harper, please just listen—"
"I don't know you!" Her voice pitched higher, eyes instantly red. "Please leave, or I'm calling the police!"
"You don't know me?" I let out a bitter laugh, her words shredding my heart. "Harper Evans. Mrs. Orlov. My wife—and you say you don't know me?"
Harper cried as she shoved at my hand trapped in the doorway.
"I came all the way here to hide from you. Why won't you just leave me alone?"
"I came to take you home." I stared at her, searching for even a trace of what we'd had. "About Aiden... I'm sorry. I can make it up to you. Whatever you want."
"Home?" She repeated the word softly, mouth curving into something almost mocking. "My home is right here."
Harper paused, her gaze still direct and unafraid. "If you really feel guilty, then disappear from my sight. That's the only compensation you can give me."
Just as I was about to keep talking, a hand reached out from behind Harper, settling naturally on her shoulder.
"Sweetheart, who is this?"
A man's voice. Lazy, elegant, but laced with undisguised hostility.
My gaze traveled over Harper's shoulder to that face.
Blond. Blue eyes. Features so refined he could've stepped out of an oil painting.
So this was the man.
Julian Dante. Head of the Dante family in San Francisco. Descendant of fallen Italian nobility.
Also Genevie's husband.
My blood froze for an instant, then boiled over.
What was he doing here? How dare he touch Harper?
A thousand thoughts exploded in my head. Julian couldn't have met Harper by chance—there were no coincidences like that in this world. He'd deliberately gotten close to her. Why? Revenge? To use her? Or—
I couldn't let myself think further.
"If you don't want to end up crippled today, you better take your filthy hand off her."
Julian raised one eyebrow, a playful smile on his face. Not only did his hand not move, it slid down several inches, settling around Harper's waist.
"Really?" he drawled. "And who are you to give me orders?"
My last thread of rationality snapped.
I lunged forward, fist connecting with his pretty face. It felt so fucking good—my knuckles landing precisely on his cheekbone, bone on bone making a satisfying thud that pleased me for exactly point-one seconds.
"Fuck!" Julian staggered back, hitting the doorframe. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, sapphire eyes instantly turning cold as ice. "Orlov, have you lost your goddamn mind?"
"Stay away from her!" I grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall. Expensive tailoring crumpled in my hands, but I didn't give a shit. Seven months of rage, fear, guilt, longing—every goddamn emotion converted into violence in that moment. "She's my wife! Get the fuck away from her!"
Julian sneered and drove his knee into my stomach. I grunted but didn't let go. We grappled together, fists and curses filling the narrow hallway. His punch landed on my ribs. My knee drove into his thigh. We tore at each other like animals—hitting, kicking, snarling.
"Your wife?" Julian's voice came through clenched teeth, dripping with mockery. Blood slid from the corner of his mouth. "You think she accepts that title?"
The words struck like a blade, finding my most vulnerable spot.
My movements faltered for just an instant. In that split second, Julian's fist smashed into my jaw.
"Stop! Both of you, stop!"
Harper's scream cut through the chaos. She tried to push between us, but got forced back by our momentum.
"Kirill Orlov!" she shouted, voice shaking. "I said stop!"
I stopped.
Harper shoved between us, pushing me back hard.
Her palms pressed against my chest. Through the thin fabric of my shirt, I could feel her warmth.
"Enough, Kirill. We're done." Harper looked at me with those red-rimmed eyes. "Go home."
"Harper, let me explain—"
"Explain what?" Harper cut me off, stepping back like she couldn't bear to be near me. "Explain why you locked me in a basement? Explain why you hung up on all my calls? Or explain why the night my brother died, you were fucking another woman?"
"Harper..." I forced the words out. "I know I was wrong. I know I hurt you. But—"
"No buts." A tear slid down her cheek, but she forced a smile. "Kirill, I'm happy now with my husband. Please don't harass me anymore."
Husband.
The word hit like ice water, head to toe.
I watched her turn. Watched her reach for Julian—that bastard holding his bruised face, still managing a smug smile.
"Let's go," she told Julian. "Ignore him."
Julian wrapped an arm around her waist, deliberately pausing as he passed me, leaning close to my ear.
"See you around, ex-husband."
I clenched my fists, nails nearly breaking skin.
Harper walked inside without looking back. The door slammed in my face.
The sound rang in my ears, made my chest seize up so tight I could barely breathe.
I stood there in front of that closed door like an abandoned fool.
The hallway fell silent again. A few nosy neighbors who'd poked their heads out saw the show was over and retreated. Next door, some old lady's eyes still peered through a crack, curious and wary.
I must've looked like hell—suit wrinkled, shirt bloodstained, face probably black and blue. But I didn't care anymore.
What was physical pain? Compared to the gaping wound in my chest, these cuts and bruises were nothing.
She called him her husband.
Husband. The word lodged like a thorn in my heart, stabbing with every beat.
She said not to harass her anymore.
Don't harass her. I'd searched for her for seven months, day and night, sleepless, relentless—for this? To be told to leave her alone?
I closed my eyes. The scene replayed in my head.
The girl who used to blush and look away, who couldn't even meet my eyes—now she looked at me with ice.
She didn't love me anymore.
I reached out, fingertips brushing the cold door. The wood grain felt rough and hard, like everything standing between us now.
On the other side of that door, she was living with another man. Maybe right now they were cooking side by side, Julian holding ice to his swollen face while Harper tenderly bandaged him up. Saying all those sweet things I'd never had the chance to say.
No.
I couldn't think about it. If I kept thinking, I'd go insane.
I pulled my hand back, took a deep breath, and forced myself to calm down.
Julian Dante.
That name hit like cold water, snapping me out of my self-pity.
He couldn't have ended up in Harper's life by accident. Genevie ran from him to me for protection; Harper ran from me and "just happened" to meet Julian?
There were no coincidences like that in this world.
He had a purpose. He'd gotten close to Harper, taken care of her, spent seven months with her—why? Revenge against Genevie? To get at me? Or was he using Harper as leverage?
Whatever it was, he had an agenda.
Harper thought Julian genuinely cared for her. Thought she'd finally found someone who wouldn't hurt her.
But I couldn't let Harper walk into the lion's den.