Chapter Twenty-One - Suzy #2
“I know enough,” he says, the words low and even. “I know he’s always looking for an angle. I know you’re not as good at hiding things as you think.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. The room tilts. I try to marshal a response—something clever, something dismissive—but my mind blanks. “Leon—”
He straightens, coming around to face me, his expression unreadable in the firelight. “Trust,” he says quietly, “is everything. Without it, there’s nothing worth saving. Nothing worth fighting for.”
The silence hums between us. I know then—know with a sick, sinking certainty—that he’s known all along.
Maybe not every detail, but enough. The trip, the kindness, the way he’s watched me these last few days—it was all a stage. An opportunity. A test I never had a chance of passing.
I look up, meet his eyes, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The fire pops. The whiskey burns. I feel like I’m teetering on a knife’s edge, one step away from losing everything I never meant to want.
Panic slices through me so fast it’s almost physical, like a blade dragged clean through my chest.
My mind fractures into a thousand sharp pieces, each one replaying a moment I’ve tried not to think about—the drawer not quite closed, the quiet hum of cameras I couldn’t see, the weight of my phone in my pocket as I took those photos with shaking hands.
I see it all again, mercilessly clear. The question isn’t if he knows. It’s how long he’s known.
I push back from the table too quickly, chair legs screeching against the floor. The sound is loud in the cabin’s hush, a stupid, panicked noise that makes me feel even smaller. I need space. Air. Somewhere to put my fear.
The cabin feels suddenly tiny, the walls leaning in, the firelight throwing shadows that seem to move when I’m not looking.
Leon doesn’t move right away. He watches me with that unsettling stillness, his face half in shadow, mouth curved in a faint smile that holds no warmth at all. It’s not anger. It’s worse. It’s certainty.
“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” he says softly.
The words hit harder than a shout. They steal what little breath I have left.
My body freezes, every instinct screaming at me to run, to deny, to say something—anything—but his eyes pin me in place.
I’ve seen that look before, just not directed at me.
It’s the look men get when the outcome is already decided.
My father’s voice rises in my head, uninvited and cruel.
Warnings dressed up as lessons. Never lie to men like him unless you’re ready to die for it.
Never betray someone who has nothing left to lose.
I feel my pulse in my throat, fast and shallow, and suddenly I’m very aware of how alone we are out here.
No guards. No witnesses. No one to hear me scream if this goes wrong.
Leon steps closer, not touching me, but near enough that I can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. My skin prickles with dread.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmurs, almost kindly. Then, after a pause that makes my stomach drop, “Not yet.”
The room tilts. I swallow hard, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Every part of me wants to beg, to tell him it wasn’t what he thinks, that I didn’t mean to hurt him.
The truth is too ugly, too tangled. I don’t even know where I’d start.
He speaks calmly, like this is a business conversation, like he isn’t dismantling me piece by piece.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he says. “That would be pointless.” His gaze never leaves my face, sharp and assessing. “Trust is the foundation of everything. Marriage. Business. Life. Without it, there’s nothing worth keeping.”
My chest aches, a deep, bruising pain. “Leon—” My voice breaks on his name. I hate that it does.
“I won’t tolerate betrayal,” he continues, tone still even, but there’s steel under it now. “Not from you. Not again.”
Again. The word lodges in my ribs. This isn’t just about me. This is about old wounds, old ghosts, things I was never meant to inherit but did anyway. I see it then—this wasn’t just a test. It was a warning. A single, carefully measured chance to stop before I went any further.
I failed.
I don’t know what’s worse: the fear of his anger, or the sick realization that I’m capable of this—that I betrayed a man who, for a few fragile days, made me feel safe.
I think of the mornings riding through the fields, the quiet laughter, the way I let myself imagine a different life. I feel stupid for it now. Dangerous hope, indulged at the worst possible moment.
Leon straightens, stepping back at last, the distance between us suddenly enormous. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t threaten me again. He doesn’t have to. The message is carved into the silence, into the way he looks at me like he’s recalculating everything.
He turns away first, walking past me toward the stairs. He stops once, just long enough to glance back. That single look is enough.
My legs move on their own, carrying me upstairs, every step heavy and unsteady. I shut the bedroom door and lock it, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet cabin.
Then I slide down against the wood, hugging my knees to my chest as the trembling finally takes over. My whole body shakes, violent and uncontrollable, as if the fear has been waiting for permission to spill out.
I press my forehead to my knees, breathing through it, counting the seconds until my heart stops trying to escape my chest.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
I flinch like I’ve been burned, staring at the screen through blurred vision. My father’s name glows there, patient and insistent. Another message. Another demand. Another reminder of the trap I’ve built for myself.
I don’t answer. I don’t even open it.
I understand now, with a clarity that hurts worse than any threat, that there are worse things than being a prisoner in Leon’s Sharov house.
There’s being his wife: loved, watched, measured. There’s being someone he chose to trust and now never fully will. There’s living one secret away from losing everything, or worse, from turning him into an enemy.
I press my face into my knees and try to quiet the shaking, knowing with a terrible certainty that nothing will ever be simple again. Not love. Not loyalty. Not escape.
Worst of all, I’m no longer sure which side of this war I’m truly on.