Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Harper
"He's here again."
Head Nurse Marianne stood by the window, pulling back a slat of the blinds to peek outside.
I didn't need to walk over to know who she meant. That black Maybach had been parked outside the nursing home for three solid hours. Through the tinted windows, I couldn't see a thing, but I could feel that gaze—a tangible weight, piercing through the glass and pressing into my spine.
"Harper, who the hell did you piss off?" Marianne turned to look at me, her brow furrowed tight. "How many days has this been? Should we call the cops?"
"No." I kept my head down, organizing the medicine cabinet. "He won't hurt anyone."
Or more accurately, calling the cops wouldn't help.
Ever since that reunion outside Julian's place, Kirill had become a shadow I couldn't shake, popping up constantly in my life.
At first, I thought it was a coincidence—that tall silhouette in the canned goods aisle at the supermarket, those gray-blue eyes meeting mine at the gas station convenience store, the flash of a black coat around the corner from my apartment building.
He was following me.
No, it wasn't even following. He appeared right there in plain sight, as if declaring his presence, as if reminding me—he wasn't going to let me go.
"Harper?" Marianne's voice pulled me back. "You look awful. Why don't you clock out early today?"
"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "Mrs. Brown in 206 needs her dressing changed. I promised her."
Marianne looked at me, started to say something, then just sighed and walked away.
I grabbed the tray and headed down the corridor toward 206. Passing the activity room, a few residents sat clustered around the TV watching a soap opera. One white-haired lady spotted me and waved enthusiastically. "Harper! Come sit!"
"In a minute, Mrs. Wilson," I called back with a smile. "Let me change Mrs. Brown's dressing first."
Mrs. Wilson pouted. "That old bat. Always playing sick just to hog you."
"Mrs. Wilson!" I pretended to scowl.
She cackled, wrinkles blooming across her face like a withered flower. These lonely old people, forgotten here by their children—their only joy was chatting with the staff. How could I bear to leave them?
I pushed open the door to 206. Mrs. Brown sat propped against the headboard, looking at a yellowed photo album. When she saw me, she quickly shoved it under her pillow like a child caught doing something wrong.
"Old photos, Mrs. Brown?" I asked while prepping the supplies.
She was quiet for a moment, then spoke softly. "My husband. He's been gone twenty years."
My hands paused. Twenty years—longer than I'd been alive.
"Do you miss him?" I asked.
"Every day." She gazed out the window, her expression softening, turning distant. "You know, when we first married, he was broke as hell. My mother said that man will make you suffer. But I didn't listen. I thought, as long as I was with him, any amount of suffering would be worth it."
I peeled back the gauze, keeping my movements gentle. The wound was healing, pink new skin forming at the edges.
"And then?" I asked.
"Then?" She smiled. "Then I did suffer. A lot. But I never regretted it. Not once."
I didn't know what to say. In my personal dictionary, regret took up too many pages. Regret for loving the wrong man, for believing in an impossible relationship, for cutting open my heart and handing it to someone who would crush it.
When my shift ended, Julian's car was already waiting outside the nursing home.
He stepped out of the driver's seat, sunlight gilding his light brown hair with a warm glow. Like always, he wore an expensive wool coat, dressed like he was about to appear in a fashion magazine.
"You're early today," I said, surprised.
Julian didn't answer. Instead, he looked across the street. I followed his gaze. That black Maybach was still there.
"He's there every day?" Julian's voice was calm, but I heard the suppressed fury underneath.
"Julian—"
"Get in." He opened the passenger door, his tone brooking no argument.
I bit my lip and slid inside. Julian walked around to the driver's seat, started the engine, but didn't pull away. He watched the rearview mirror, his mouth curving into a dangerous smile.
"He's following."
"What?" I instinctively turned to look back. Sure enough, the black Mercedes had started up, keeping pace at a careful distance behind us.
"Don't worry." Julian reached over and took my hand, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. "I'll protect you."
I wanted to pull away, but he held tight.
"Julian, you really don't have to—"
Julian cut me off. He turned his head and quickly kissed my cheek.
I froze, startled. Julian had confessed his feelings before, but he'd never crossed the line this blatantly.
"Julian?"
"Let him see." Julian's lips brushed my ear. "Let him know you don't belong to him anymore."
My body went rigid. This intimacy made me deeply uncomfortable, but I didn't know how to refuse.
I wasn't ready for a new relationship, but Julian was hard to say no to.
"Let's go home," he said, his voice gentle but laced with unmistakable possession.
Back at the house, when the nanny handed little Aiden into my arms, I couldn't help kissing his cheek.
He was all I cared about now. Nothing else mattered.
But to earn money, I had to leave him to go to work. The guilt ate at me constantly.
Julian glanced toward the door, then turned back, stroking Aiden's head.
"I want to take you and the baby to another city." Straight to the point.
I set Aiden in his crib, unsure how to respond.
Deep down, I knew this day would come. My identity was exposed, and the owner of that Maybach that followed me daily—Aiden's biological father—clearly had no intention of letting me go.
"Nothing keeping you here, right?" Julian sat across from me, his expression serious. "If you want to get away from him completely, this is the only way. I have business contacts in Dallas who can help us settle in. The kid can start at a new school, and you can find a new job. Start fresh."
Start fresh.
Those words sat on my chest like a boulder.
"I..." I opened my mouth, but didn't know what to say.
Leaving meant leaving the nursing home. Leaving Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Wilson, and all those lonely old people who treated me like family. Their own families had already abandoned them once. I couldn't do it to them again.
"What are you hesitating about?" Julian frowned.
"The residents..." I looked down. "Christmas is coming. I promised I'd spend it with them. For some of them, this might be their last Christmas."
Julian was silent for a long time.
"Fine," he finally relented. "After Christmas. But that's the deadline."
I nodded, relieved.
"Harper." He stopped me, his voice softening. "I know it's hard to let go. But sometimes we have to, to make room for something new."
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't sure what I was really holding onto.
Christmas came.
The nursing home was strung with lights and bells, carols playing cheerfully down the hallways. The residents wore their best clothes, sitting in the activity room waiting for the show to start.
I ran around nonstop—helping Mrs. Wilson adjust her wig, getting Mrs. Brown hot chocolate, being pulled aside for photos with the residents. Everyone was laughing, everyone was happy, as if for this one day, all the loneliness and pain had been driven away by holiday joy.
"Harper!" someone called from behind me.
I turned. Ryan—a young male nurse, early twenties, with messy brown curls and a face still touched with boyishness. He'd worked at the nursing home for about six months, always patient and gentle with the residents. Everyone liked him.
"Ryan?" I looked at him curiously. "What's up?"
His face suddenly turned red—as red as the Christmas decorations on the wall. He brought his hand out from behind his back, holding out a beautifully wrapped box.
"This... is for you." He stammered, eyes darting away, unable to look at me. "M-Merry Christmas."
I froze.
"You didn't have to—"
"Open it!" He got the words out, then bolted like a startled rabbit, nearly knocking over the Christmas tree in the hall.
Mrs. Wilson, who'd witnessed the whole thing, winked at me mischievously. "Well, well. Someone's got an admirer."
"Mrs. Wilson!" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
I opened the box. Inside was a scarf. Simple style, but soft fabric, in a gray-blue I loved.
I stared at that scarf, a strange feeling welling up inside me. I couldn't tell if it was touched or bitter, or both.
Someone liked me.
The thought circled in my head, still feeling unreal. I'd never been the kind of girl people liked—too fat, too ordinary, too invisible. In school, no one wrote me love letters, no one stole glances at me in the hallway, no one wrote "I've had a crush on you forever" in my yearbook.
I was like a dull gray stone, passed over by everyone's gaze as it landed on shinier gems.
Now I was thinner, had learned makeup and how to dress, probably prettier, but that bone-deep insecurity never left. Every time I looked in the mirror, I still saw that chubby girl who didn't deserve to be loved.
But now, there was a boy—a boy several years younger than me, whose smile still held a trace of innocence—running away red-faced, because he liked me.
My eyes stung.
I wouldn't fall for Ryan. I knew that. But he reminded me of who I used to be—that awkward girl holding out her heart, only to have it carelessly crushed.
"Beautiful." Mrs. Brown leaned over to look. "That boy likes you."
"He's just..." I didn't know how to explain. "He's so much younger than me."
"So what?" Mrs. Brown laughed. "My husband was three years younger. Loved me his whole life anyway."
I shook my head, carefully folding the scarf back into the box. Whatever Ryan felt, I couldn't return it. My heart was already in tatters, no room left for anything new.
But the next day, the nightmare hit.
I got Marianne's call in the morning. Ryan had been found in the alley behind the nursing home, covered in blood, beaten nearly to death. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was unconscious.
When I rushed to the hospital, Ryan had just been wheeled out of surgery. His face was so swollen it was barely recognizable. Broken nose, fractured eye socket, three broken ribs, minor internal bleeding.
"Oh God..." I covered my mouth, tears spilling over.
"He woke up once," the ER nurse told me. "Said a few things, on and off."
"What things?"
The nurse glanced at me, her expression complicated. "He said... the guy who attacked him was tall, wore a black coat, spoke with a Russian accent."
My blood turned to ice.
Tall. Black coat. Russian accent.
No.
It couldn't be him.
Kirill was a bastard, a cold-blooded mob boss, the man who broke my heart. But he wouldn't—he wouldn't do this over something like—
The scarf.
I suddenly remembered. On Christmas, Kirill's black Maybach had been parked outside the nursing home. He must have seen it. Seen Ryan give me that gift, seen me accept the scarf, and then—
Then he beat Ryan into this.
A tidal wave of rage exploded from my chest. I left the hospital and found Kirill by the Maybach outside. He stood in front of the car, smoking.
The pale winter sun was harsh and cold, falling on his black coat, outlining a lonely, dangerous silhouette.
He saw me, nervously tossed the cigarette aside, as if suddenly remembering to feel guilty.
"Why did you do it?" I stormed up to him, my voice shaking with fury. "He was innocent! He just gave me a scarf! What gives you the right—"
"Harper?" Kirill frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" I screamed. "Ryan! The nurse! You beat him half to death! He's in the ICU right now!"
Kirill's frown deepened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't know?" I laughed bitterly. "Who else would it be?"
Kirill opened his mouth, then said nothing, falling into silence.
"Do you hate me that much?" Tears streamed down my face. "So much you'd hurt an innocent person? He just gave me a scarf, a goddamn scarf! He didn't know anything! He—"
"I didn't do it." Kirill cut me off, his voice low and firm.
I stared into his eyes, searching for any trace of guilt or shame.
"I thought, no matter what you'd done, you had a line you wouldn't cross.
But I was wrong. You have no lines. You're a complete monster.
I'm done with you." Tears blurred my vision, smearing his outline.
"I never want to see you again. From now on, I'm leaving with Julian.
Forever. I'll never be anywhere near you again. "
I turned to leave.
But Kirill grabbed my wrist.
"What did you say?" His voice was low and hoarse, carrying some emotion I couldn't read. "You're leaving with him?"
"Let go of me."
"You—"
"She said let go."
Julian's voice came from behind me.
I turned. He was striding toward us, his face dark, amber eyes flashing dangerously. He reached my side and yanked me out of Kirill's grip.
"You okay?" He looked down at me, voice gentle.
I shook my head, couldn't speak.
Julian pulled me into his arms, one hand cradling the back of my head, pressing my face into his chest.
"Come on," he said. "I'll take you home."
We hadn't taken more than a few steps when Kirill's furious shout rang out.
"Get your filthy hands off her—!"
Kirill slammed a punch into Julian's gut. Julian immediately returned the favor, his fist connecting with Kirill's face.
Again.
Even after I'd run here, Kirill still thought I was his property, something he could claim through violence whenever he wanted.
Rage snapped what was left of my restraint.
I wasn't Kirill's property. Not some pet that came when he beckoned and left when he waved me away.
In the gap between their scuffle, I shoved Kirill hard, grabbed Julian's collar, stood on my toes, and pressed my lips to his.
It was a kiss fueled by revenge.
Julian clearly froze for a second, but he recovered fast. He smiled and accepted what I offered, even deliberately deepening the kiss, his tongue parting my lips, thorough and lingering.
I didn't push him away. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck, matching his movements, even letting out a soft, sweet gasp when we broke for air.
Kirill looked like someone had ripped out his soul, standing there rigid.
The kiss didn't last long. Soon, Julian released me, lifted his head to look at Kirill, his mouth curving in a challenging smile.
"From now on," he said, voice soft but every word crystal clear, "she's mine."
Then he took my hand and walked away without looking back.
I followed, didn't turn around.
But I could feel that gaze behind me—burning, scorching, ready to consume me whole.