29. Vian
VIAN
It’s been two days. What is taking her so long? I’ve been holed up in my damn penthouse, and with every hour, it gets harder to keep pretending.
A prolonged absence will encourage some members to think they can take my place. Only my trusted men know I am perfectly fine, but rumors have already started circulating.
The fresh wounds ache and pulse, sweat gathering at my temples as I pace my living room. I shouldn’t be up. I should lie in bed and recover, but with every minute she’s not coming, I am slowly losing my mind.
What the fuck could have happened? I was sure she would turn the jet around to confirm I am dead.
I wipe a hand down my face, about to go to her myself and drag her back, more or less willingly. In my weakened state, her men might kill me this time, but I couldn’t care less.
My phone rings, and when I see it’s from one guard downstairs, I pick up.
“She’s here, Boss.”
“Do your job,” I command, then end the call.
Everything in me rewires, propelling me into action. With little time to spare, I set the lockdown in place.
The moment she steps inside, we’ll be shut in, and I mentally go through the checklist one more time. We have ample supplies, ensuring two weeks of comfortable living.
I locked up my weapons, not wanting to incentivize her.
Nothing and no one will hinder me in my quest to win my wife back. I don’t have a Plan B in motion, running on pure will and unwavering determination.
Rushing to my bedroom, I hide behind the door, hearing her high heels clack down the hall. Just knowing she is close revs everything inside me.
The woman tried to kill you. My inner voice urges me to proceed with caution, but I have no idea what that is. With her, I’ve always been all in.
I can hear her labored breathing from the other side, counting the seconds until she walks inside.
She takes longer than expected, giving me the impression she feels a smidgen of guilt, even though I am not blaming her.
This woman could try to kill me a hundred times, and I couldn’t stop loving her. I am wired that way.
I hold in a breath as she walks inside, coming to an abrupt stop.
“What the—” she gasps, looking around, contrite.
I release the breath I was holding, a smirk taking its place.
Her purse slips from her hand, and like a madwoman, she hurries to my side of the bed, yanking at the covers and throwing the pillows as if I somehow hide under them.
“Surprise,” I say, stepping forward to reveal myself.
Bent over the bed, she freezes, her arms suspended in the air before she spins around. She sends me a death glare, appearing like a goddess of wrath. The image only makes me burn hotter for her.
Her gaze flits to the purse lying on the floor just a few feet away. I am closer to it, and with a sprint, I reach it and dump the contents. I grab the gun she has stashed inside just as she reaches me.
She pokes me in the same place she shot me, and a wave of dizziness hits me, causing me to stumble back. I grasp the gun in my other hand, lifting my arm so it’s out of her reach.
Swiftly unloading the magazine, I step onto the balcony and dispose of every cartridge.
Hot on my trail, she breathes like a dragon calling upon flames.
“Here, wife.” I offer the Glock to her, but she just stares at it.
“You’re alive,” she murmurs, thick emotion lodged in her voice.
I shrug, placing the gun at the back of my pants, and mask my true feelings. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
The wound bleeds, red coloring the crisp white shirt. She stares at the blood coating the fabric, then she averts her gaze. “You tricked me. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Erasing the inches between us, I slip my fingers under her chin, forcing her to look at me. “You tried to kill me. I doubt you won’t try again.”
On closer inspection, I notice heavy bags under her eyes. Her face is pale, and her shoulders slump as if she wants to curl into herself. “Whatever, Vian. I am done,” she says, walking away with a despondent posture.
I follow her, puzzled by the change from the woman who tried to kill me to the one who simply wants to walk out of my life.
“Giving up so easily on killing me?”
“You wouldn’t die anyway, just to spite me,” she grumbles and presses the button of the elevator, but it doesn’t blink.
“We’re in lockdown.”
She turns on her heel and gnashes her teeth. “Let me go.”
“Can’t do that.”
“You fucking asshole.” She takes off her heels and throws them at me in rapid moves. One flies past my face, the sole brushing my cheek while the other hits my thighs with its pointy heel. Fuck, her aim is impeccable.
Hiking her pencil skirt up her thighs, she sprints toward me and jumps into my arms, taking me down. I drop onto my back, hitting the ground hard. Damn, I think my stitches reopened, and I let out a groan of discomfort.
She lands on top of me with her palm on the entry wound. The red spot widens, and when she lifts her hand, it carries a rosy hue from my blood.
She stares at it in horror. This is the woman who wished for my demise? I doubt it, considering she shot me because I startled her rather than as part of her plan.
“I thought you wanted my blood on your hands.”
She thrashes in my arms, clawing at my skin to draw my blood to calm her demons.
I don’t move, just let her tire herself while hitting me, aware I hurt her. To appease her, I’ll spend my existence paying her pound of flesh. I’d endure the center of hell just to have her.
She brushes wayward strands of hair from her face, appearing calmer. “How long?”
“Until you give me a second chance.”
“It would be a third chance, and I’m out of them,” she snickers, eliciting a chuckle from me. “Idiot,” she mumbles, standing and straightening her pencil skirt before skimming her palms over the shirt stained with my blood.
The fight drains from her. “Perfect.”
“Sorry for disrupting your plan. I know you expected to unplug me,” I say, pushing myself up.
She lifts her arms in the air. “What damn plug, you asshole? You played me again.”
“Hypothetically speaking––”
“You love your hypothetical bullshit,” she grumbles, then storms toward the kitchen, where she pours herself a glass of water. After gulping down a generous amount, she wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
Placing her palms on the counter, she stares at me, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. “What do you want from me?”
“Everything.”
“You’ll get nothing, and that’s because I am in a merciful mood.”
I smirk, leaning against the wall to put some space between us, even if I want nothing more than to bridge it. “Two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” she asks, gobsmacked. “Are you insane?”
“Most probably.”
She arches an incredulous brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “And then you’ll let me go?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrow into two slits, and I feel her scrutiny to my marrow. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s because you’ve always been smart,” I say, gorging on her presence after starving for it for so long.
“Not smart enough to stay away from you.”
“I’m the exception.”
She slaps her palms on the counter, spitting. “The biggest mistake of my life.”
“Ouch,” I say, rubbing my chest as if she hurt me. She didn’t because she’s full of bullshit.
“Two weeks,” she says meekly.
“And no attempt at killing me.”
Her eyes lock on mine, gleaming with a violent streak. “That will prove hard to uphold when you make me so trigger-happy.”
“You left me to die, Zara.”
She stiffens, eyes downcast. “The only mistake was not confirming your death.”
“You should have.”
It’s too late now. I know it. She knows it. And something else dawns on me: our trust lies butchered at our feet.
What will our future entail without it?
She jerks her chin at me. “Are you even supposed to be on your feet?”
“What the fuck do you care?” I snap. The physical pain is a nuisance, but it’s the emotional one threatening to overpower me.
I’ve built a house of cards, and a slight breeze was enough to destroy it. Riddled with holes, strength leaks out of me, leaving only weakness behind. I palm the wall, thinking I should take pain medication, but I am too stubborn to listen to my doctor.
The pain anchors me, reminding me I am alive. I deserve it, as I’ve hurt the only woman I’ve loved.
She approaches me and lifts my shirt, murmuring, “I wouldn’t have unplugged you.”
“Why?” I ask, caught in her spell.
“If I’m trapped in limbo, so are you.”
She slowly pulls at my bandage and glares at me as if I am at fault for causing the stitches to undo. “Call the doctor.”
“No.”
“You need to be stitched back up,” she huffs, annoyance ringing loud in her tone.
I shrug. “You’re here.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
I lower my face to hers, my breathing ragged. “Well, Zara, I don’t fucking care about dying if I don’t have you in my life.”
She clutches my shirt, the fight dimming in her gaze. “Stop saying shit like that.” She shoves me into the bedroom. “This is not a peace offering. I don’t want to deal with a corpse while on lockdown.”
“Sure.”
“Is anyone else privy to the code?”
My cousin. I am not a fucking imbecile willing to risk something happening to her if I am unable to open it.
“What do you think?” I smirk, deliberately letting her believe I am the only one.
Pushing me onto my back on the bed, she goes to the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinets. A few moments later, she returns with a medical sewing kit, some pads, and disinfectant, placing them by my side.
When she kneels beside me, my cock tents my pants, and she glares at me.
I wiggle my brows and lock my arms behind my neck, at ease for someone as fucked up as me. “Not my fault.”
“No, you’re a fucking saint, and somehow my simple presence tempts you,” she mumbles, tending to my wound with utter care.
“You’ve tempted the devil. He has no qualms about indulging, and that is worse because he enjoys it.”
She rolls her eyes at me and carefully plucks the shredded stitches out one by one with tweezers, which is enough to make me believe she doesn’t want to cause me harm.
“What took you so long?”
She pulls the next one with no finesse.