Chapter 58 No Tears, No Flowers
no tears, no flowers
Isla
The events in Italy shook me to my core, like I’d been through an armed conflict. Is that what war veterans went through? I was always on the verge of tears, like my heart and soul had been severely bruised.
Roman spent time recovering, and I was there every step of the way. Besides needing glasses and earning a bad-ass scar on his stomach, he looked the same. I couldn’t fucking get enough of him in glasses. Why were men in glasses so hot?
He looked so strict, like a hot professor who was ready to bend me over his knee and spank me for disobedience—just what I wanted. The nerdy look was the perfect juxtaposition to his inked skin.
We spent quiet time together, both of us recovering, trying to recalibrate after the shock of being ripped apart. We spoke in soft voices, went for long walks, and watched calm movies together on the couch.
I’d cook his favorite meals, and for the first time ever, he read me his love poems. He had real talent—the words he wrote and spoke would tug at every single emotion I possessed. I sobbed into my hands, a mess each time he shared.
And our wedding was the most joyous day of my life. It was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Every day with him was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
It was a moment for us alone—quiet, unassuming, and ours. Simple, yet magical. I wanted only him, without guests, speeches, or pressure.
Somehow, a newbie photographer spotted us outside city hall and pleaded to take some photos.
I was apprehensive because the last month shattered my trust in people, but then I realized I’d have no memories of this day.
So I said yes, and the photos he delivered were outstanding.
Roman and I looked fucking gorgeous together, and now, we’d have something to show our kids.
At the end of the most memorable day, Roman poured me champagne, his little smile making me fall in love with him harder. “I thought you said I was a dangerous drunk?” I teased as he passed me the flute and clinked his glass with mine.
“No.” He leaned in and wrapped his arm around me. “You’re just dangerous. You don’t need alcohol for that.” His sweet lips met mine, sending sparkles through all of me like always.
Our first dance was in his living room. Our living room.
His apartment would forever be the place where my life changed.
He carried me in here when I couldn’t walk, incoherent and in pain.
This was the place he made me watch him fuck someone else.
This was where I cooked him dinner like we were a married couple, before knowing anything about him.
This was the place where he gifted me unforgettable orgasms, changing my sex life forever. This was where I fell in love with him.
I didn't think I could love anyone as much as I loved him. I didn't think that kind of love existed. It was just us in the universe; there was nothing and no one else.
The thin straps of my dress slid off my shoulders, Roman’s fingers ghosting on my skin. Rough and filthy was our default, but our wedding night was different. It was sacred.
It was slow. It was sensual. I unbuttoned his white shirt, all our movements as if in slow motion. His scent, his eyes, his body…put me in a coma of lust and love.
“I love when you’re naked for me, Angel.” His whisper fanned the skin on my shoulder as he pulled down my dress, letting it pool at my feet. His gaze traveled my body, taking it all in. Even with my scars…Roman loved every inch of me.
Slowly, our bodies became one, our eyes focused only on each other. Roman whispered sweet nothings in my ear, and I listened intently, crying and smiling all at once, drunk on his love and affection, and elated from being in his arms.
His fingers were gentle, sliding across my hot skin; over all the scars he’d kissed every morning and night. When his hands gripped my thighs and he pulled me into his lap, I melted into him, my hands on his cheeks and his crimson lips on mine.
I’d never forget that night. Not his words, not his touch, not his eyes.
His love was carved into my skin as deep as my scars.
“To recap.” I looked over Roman’s silly smile as we sat in his office a month after our wedding, my legs in his lap, discussing potential honeymoon destinations. “We both agree on Iceland, Japan, South America—basically the whole worl—”
But I was interrupted when the door to the office suddenly swung open, and Sergei barreled in. His shirt was untucked, and he was all red in the face, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of us both.
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.” He waved a hand at me.
We hadn’t seen him since coming back, and while he was usually put together, something felt off about him. He dropped into an armchair, both of us waiting to hear what he had to say so he could leave.
Weeks prior, Roman told me Sergei confessed to killing his sister. I was horrified at the story. Nauseous and unable to quell my tears. Shocked wasn’t the right word to describe my state.
"Why on earth did you come to Italy with him?!" I wondered out loud after Roman's story.
"Because I knew he’d fulfill my wishes. I knew he wouldn't disobey, but clearly, I didn't know your resolve."
Neither did I. I never knew I had that kind of resolve. I never knew I had that much anger inside me. I never knew I could take a life.
Sergei sat across from us and blabbered on, not making a lot of sense.
“…after Italy, it’s like the whole thing shifted, you know?
It’s neither here nor there. I mean, I-I don’t even know how to continue on with work after what happened, and what’s more, I don’t want to—like something is eating away at me, and why on earth did you guys sneak around like that, huh?
” Sergei couldn’t even take a breath; he just talked nonsense without pause.
“I mean, fine, there are things…things that happened, but I-I think I should know about you getting married at least!”
What a delusional psycho, thinking that we would tell him about our wedding or about our lives.
But then Sergei’s head slumped down, and he took a deep breath in, finally spilling what was on his soul after a short pause.
“I’m ending it with Lena.” He confessed in the quiet office, neither Roman nor I able to respond even a word.
“You two, with your fucking stupid fairy tale, Romeo and Juliet love, made me realize…that I should just let her go.”
He raised his gaze to us; his eyes filled with honesty for the first time.
“What the fuck are we doing together? Just torturing each other. She knows I don’t love her,” he added bitterly and tagged on another tidbit.
“And she’s picked up on the fact that I’ve been fucking everyone but her for years. And she’s pissed.”
Roman slid his hand on my shin, watching Sergei quietly, both of us waiting for him to leave. But then Sergei narrowed his eyes on me. “You fucking told her, didn’t you? What I said to you? That’s really what upset our little house of cards. Why’d you do that? You can’t take a fucking joke?!”
Roman sat up and opened his mouth to defend me, but just then, the door burst open, and there stood Lena, pure rage in her eyes. Her face was all red and tear-streaked, but that’s not what caught my attention—she had a gun in her hand.
Before anyone could react, before anyone could utter a single word, she rushed over to Sergei and aimed right at his chest.
The shot was loud, violent…and deadly.
I froze on the couch, hands clamped over my mouth, as Roman shot up from his seat and tore the gun from Lena’s hand. Sergei clutched the hole in his chest, blood seeping through his fingers, regret clouding his eyes.
"Lena..." he gasped. "Why..."
But his question was left unanswered. Sergei’s last breath rattled out of him, and the silence rang loud in the room, all of us watching him collapse forward onto the soft carpet.
My heart pounded, and my mind was barely catching up with the events in front of me, and yet…it made sense.
Lena stood there trembling, looking down at her dead husband, her gut-wrenching sobs echoing between us. Roman shoved her gently into a chair before walking over to Sergei and checking the pulse on his neck, as if this was some routine wellness checkup.
"I'm going—I'm going to leave.” Lena sobbed out, trying to make a sentence. "I'm taking the kids, and I'm—I’m going to Russia. R-Roman? Make it look like an accident. Make it look like he disa—disappeared."
Roman stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, looking down at a dead Sergei, lost for words.
"Go, Lena.” He finally spoke and helped her out of the chair and out of the door. Then he made a call, pulled me up and into his arms, and we left, leaving Sergei there.
There was no funeral for Sergei. There were no flowers, there were no prayers, there were no tears. He didn't have a grave. His body was destroyed, and he...disappeared.
Guilt ate away at me when I thought that his death seemed justified. He was an awful man, dark, ruthless, and destructive. Yes, he was also loyal and had the potential to make the right choice, but he pillaged and destroyed instead. He didn’t just make bad decisions—he made everyone’s life hell.
His life was hollow, and no one could regret his death.
Late that evening, I joined Roman on the balcony; the dark city the only witness to our words.
"He asked Lena why she did it.” Roman’s voice was low and depleted.
“But we all know why. He ruined her life. Just like anyone he came in contact with—he destroyed her as well.” I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, holding onto my treasure.
“Not only did he not love her—he cheated on her.
He used her. He disrespected her. And she took it all.
Until there was nothing left of her. He poisoned her life. "
It was there for the both of us—relief that he was out of our lives.
Roman told me everything—all the betrayal, the lies, and the circus that Sergei orchestrated. Sergei hid so much, the consequences of his deception far-reaching. “He was like a fucking gangrene. Decaying me and my family.”
The story was twisted and dark. I hadn’t realized people could be so fake, so thoroughly rotten. But then I remembered John—another monster in disguise. Sometimes, these monsters would sit across from you at dinner. Sometimes…they’d call themselves family.
Every night after Sergei’s demise, Roman and I spent hours on the couch, at the dining table, and in our bed discussing everything that happened between us and in our lives over the past year.
It was therapeutic for both of us. We talked through the pain, the devastation, and the regret.
We both wanted to leave it all behind. I wanted our married life to start off on the right foot—on a positive note, and I knew he was determined for that to happen as well.
During our chats, Roman explained who Mia and Kirill were. He looked sheepish while revealing how he linked my life with Mia, both of us oblivious. But I was touched. Even when we were broken up, he still took care of me.
Roman looked nothing like he did when we first met. The anger in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders…it was all gone. He didn't look broken. Besides the tattoos, no one would have guessed the lifestyle he lived. His face was softer now, caring and relaxed.
He looked happy.
Columbia deserved a fucking medal because after I pleaded with the administration and the dean to allow me to postpone my graduation, they conceded.
I had already missed so much of the semester that there was no resuscitating the year.
So they made an unprecedented exception—again—and allowed me to restart the semester in September, scheduling my graduation for December.
As long as I paid the tuition again, of course.
Ivy League kindness came with a price tag.
But that meant that Roman and I were free until September to enjoy our honeymoon, untethered and uncommitted. So, we traveled the coast of South America and the Caribbean on his decked-out yacht. We wandered through sleepy towns, swam in crystal-clear waters, and slept under the stars.
It was a dream.
Our last honeymoon stop was in Japan, and the stares we received were for the books. Roman’s height, and especially his tattoos, stopped people in the streets, but we had the best time. The culture shock was jarring, but we ate delicious food, saw breathtaking sights, and met the kindest people.
And we made love. Made memories. Made our connection stronger—unbreakable. We were married.
From completely different worlds, with wildly different pasts, but…
We were one.