1. Dmitri
Dmitri
The woman in the hospital bed doesn’t remember trying to ruin me. It almost makes this too easy.
Two weeks ago, FSB Agent Katya “Kotyonok” Sidorov was “Alexandra Volkova” and one step away from dismantling everything I built.
Today, she’s staring at me like I’m a stranger who’s walked into the wrong room, which isn’t far from the truth.
“Mr. Kozlov?” Dr. Novikov approaches with a clipboard and the kind of rueful smile medical professionals use when delivering tough news. “Your wife is ready to be discharged.”
My wife. Not the worst lie I’ve told.
“How is she?” I ask, playing the concerned husband while studying Katya’s face for any sign of recognition.
Nothing. Just confusion and a wariness that tells me her instincts are still intact, even if her memories aren’t.
“Retrograde amnesia,” Dr. Novikov says. “No memory before the accident. It might come back slowly. Or not at all.”
Perfect.
“And her physical condition?”
“Healing well. The head trauma was severe, but she’s young and strong. With proper care and patience, she should make a full physical recovery.”
I cover my mouth like this news devastates me instead of solving every problem I’ve had for the past year. The Borisenkos thought they were eliminating a threat when they sent that car bomb to the gallery. What they actually did was hand me the perfect opportunity for revenge.
Joke’s on them. Alexandra Volkova is dead, but Katya Kozlov—my devoted wife—is about to be born.
This “marriage” gives me complete control over her recovery, her environment, and her world.
No government handlers asking questions, no FSB colleagues wondering where their missing agent disappeared to.
As far as the medical staff knows, she’s a civilian who survived a terrible accident, and I’m the loving husband taking her home to heal.
“Can I see her?” I ask.
Dr. Novikov steps aside, and I approach the bed where Katya sits propped against pillows, wearing a hospital gown that makes her look smaller and more vulnerable than she ever did during our encounters over the past year.
The small scar above her left eyebrow is the first thing I notice, just when I first met her a year ago. That scar always hooked me. A crack in her perfect facade that hints at vulnerability beneath the surface.
She’s stunning in a way that still catches me off-guard. Those ice-blue eyes that can make me rock-hard with a glance are clouded with confusion now instead of the intelligence I remember.
“Hello.” I lower into the chair beside her bed. “How are you feeling, kotyonok?”
The pet name slides off my tongue like muscle memory. I’ve called her that before, during those moments when she thought she was manipulating me instead of the other way around, though usually in English. The way she’s always watched me makes me think of a kitten tracking a mouse in the distance.
She looks around and touches her temple where a bandage covers the worst of her injuries. “I’m… confused. They say you’re my husband, but I don’t remember you.”
“That’s normal.” I reach out to take her hand. She doesn’t pull away, but I feel the tension in her fingers. “The accident was severe. The doctors explained that your memory might not return.”
She runs her fingers over the crescent moon tattoo on her inner right wrist, a nervous habit I’ve noticed since the day I met her.
The small marking has always fascinated me, made me wonder what made the composed art curator choose such a symbol.
Even now that I know she’s FSB, I want to know why she chose that to mark herself forever.
“What kind of accident?”
In my experience, the best lies come with a sprinkle of truth, so I reply, “We were at a fundraising event at an art gallery. A car drove through the building, and you hit your head. I tried to protect you, but I wasn’t quick enough.”
She studies me like I’m a puzzle she can’t quite solve. Do I look like someone she could have loved? Someone she could trust?
“Tell me about us,” she requests. “How long have we been married?”
“Two years next month. We met at an art gallery. You were curating an exhibit, and I was there for business. You walked up to me and started explaining the symbolism in a painting I was looking at.”
“I’m an art curator?”
I slide my hand up the back of her wrist to rest on her forearm and nod. “One of the best in Moscow. You have an eye for beauty and meaning that most people miss.”
“And you?” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “What do you do?”
“I run a shipping company. Import and export, mostly legitimate business dealings with some gray areas that keep things interesting.”
Again, not entirely a lie. My organization does run shipping operations, among other things.
“Do we love each other?”
Love? No. Obsession? Absolutely.
“Very much.” For some reason, the words create some strange sensation in my chest. “You’re the most important thing in my life, Katya.”
Using her real name instead of her cover identity feels like claiming something that was never mine to begin with.
It took weeks of investigation after the Borisenko family’s first approach to uncover the truth—digging through FSB personnel files, cross-referencing facial recognition databases, and calling in favors from contacts in government circles who owed me more than money.
When I finally saw her real dossier, complete with her actual name and service record, I was stunned. Katya “Kotyonok” Sidorov, elite operative, trained killer, and the woman who’d been playing me for a fool.
“Katya.” She tests the sound. “That feels right. More than the name they used—Alexandra.”
Because it’s her real name, though she doesn’t know that.
“The doctors were confused about your identity after the accident,” I explain. “Some of your identification was damaged in the crash. I had to provide them with copies of our marriage certificate to clear things up.”
Another lie, but she accepts it without question. The truth is, it didn’t take much more than a large donation to get the hospital to accept anything I said as gospel.
“Are you ready to come home?” I ask.
“Home.” She tilts her head to the side and asks, “Do you think I’ll recognize it?”
“We can hope. And if you don’t, we’ll make new memories.”
Dr. Novikov returns with discharge papers and a bag containing her personal effects from the night of the explosion.
I sign everything while she changes into clothes I brought—jeans, a soft sweater, and comfortable shoes that will help her feel less like a patient and more like a woman starting over.
I build her story on the drive to my penthouse. Our first date at a restaurant in Arbat. Her laughing at my bad jokes. Falling asleep during a movie and swearing she didn’t.
None of it happened, but I make it sound real enough that she smiles despite her confusion.
That smile should disarm me. Instead, it makes me hard. I’ve imagined breaking that mouth with kisses more times than I’ll admit.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says as we drive through Moscow traffic.
“Different how?”
“Gentler. You sound like a romantic, but you look like a man who’d never buy a woman a rose.”
I almost laugh. Romantic isn’t a word anyone would use to describe me under normal circumstances.
“You bring out the best in me,” I tell her, which might be true in a twisted way.
She turns to look out the window, watching the city pass by, and her platinum blonde hair falls over her shoulder. I resist the urge to brush an errant strand from her face. “Do I work? I mean, you said I was an art curator, but did I work after we got married?”
“You ran the contemporary art division at the Tretyakov Gallery. You were working late the night of your accident.”
“What kind of art do I like?”
“Modern pieces, mostly. You always said classical art was beautiful but predictable. You preferred artists who took risks and weren’t afraid to challenge people’s expectations.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. She told me that once when she was trying to deceive me, and now here I am, using it as part of my plan.
“That sounds like me,” she replies thoughtfully. “Or like who I want to be.”
We pull into the private garage beneath my building, and I guide her to the elevator that leads directly to my penthouse.
I’ve spent the past two weeks having my people create evidence of our fictional marriage. They’ve planted photos, personal items, and legal documents that will pass any scrutiny.
“This is beautiful,” she breathes as we enter the main living area.
The penthouse is impressive, with enormous windows overlooking the Moscow skyline, expensive furniture arranged to look comfortable rather than showy, and carefully chosen art pieces that support her supposed career as a curator.
But the real masterpiece is the collection of photographs I had created. Professional-quality images showing our fictional relationship over the past two years.
Our supposed engagement at a vineyard outside the city. Wedding photos from a ceremony that never happened. Candid shots of us at various Moscow landmarks with her face carefully photoshopped onto the body of a model who resembled her enough to be convincing.
She walks slowly through the room, stopping at each photograph with growing wonder.
“I look happy.” She picks up a framed image from our fake honeymoon in Italy.
“You were. We both were.”
“And this?” She points to a photo showing her in an elegant red dress, standing beside me at a charity gala.
“Last year’s cancer research fundraiser. You wore that dress because you knew it was my favorite color on you.”
She touches the glass like she’s trying to reach through it and grab hold of the memory.
“I hate that I can’t remember,” she muses with a sigh.
“Maybe you will. The doctors said it’s possible.”
What I don’t tell her is that I’m hoping she never remembers. That Alexandra Volkova stays buried, and Katya Kozlov becomes the only woman she knows how to be.
I move behind her, close enough to smell the harsh chemicals from the hospital’s soap on her body, and point to another photo. “This one was taken last summer at my family’s dacha outside the city. You said it was the first place that ever felt like home to you.”
“Your family?”
“My younger brother Alexei and our sister Sasha. They adore you.”
She leans back against me, tilting her head up to look at me. “Do they know what happened?”
“They know you were in an accident. I haven’t told them about the memory loss yet. I wanted to see how you’re adjusting first.”
She turns to face me, and the movement brings us close enough that I could count her eyelashes if I wanted to.
Sharp cheekbones. Straight nose.
The kind of face that demands attention, even when she’s in sweats. But it’s her mouth that distracts me, wondering what those lips would feel like wrapped around my cock.
“You’re protecting me.”
“Always.”
“Why?”
The question is simple, but the answer is anything but.
Because you tried to destroy everything I’ve built.
Because I want revenge.
Because somewhere in the past year, the line between hatred and obsession became impossible to define.
“Because I love you,” I say instead, because it feels like something a husband would say to his wife.
The smile that crosses her face is so innocent it guts me. She has no idea what kind of man she’s giving that smile to.
For a second, I want to ruin it, crush it, just to prove she shouldn’t trust me. Instead, I swallow the urge and step back before I take what isn’t mine to have.
I force my voice steady, like nothing dangerous just slipped through. “Are you hungry? I’ll order something.”
“Actually, I’m exhausted. The doctor said that’s normal.”
“Of course.” I nod like the attentive husband I’m pretending to be, though every nerve in my body is still tight from the way she smiled at me. “Let me show you to our bedroom.”
She pauses in the doorway, taking it in like she’s waiting for something to click. When it doesn’t, I catch the faintest flicker of suspicion.
I keep my tone even, careful, as if a single wrong note might tip her off. “It’s yours, kotyonok. All of this is.”
“This feels…” She hesitates, and for a moment I think she might be remembering something. “Out of place, somehow.”
My pulse spikes. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like I should remember this room. Like my body expects something different.”
Because she’s never been here.
Because nothing about this life is real.
I school my face into calm. “Recovery plays tricks. Don’t force it.”
She nods, but unease lingers in her eyes as she walks to the bed. A silk nightgown lies across the comforter — one I chose to look modest, safe. A lie in satin.
“Will you be sleeping here, too?” she asks.
“Only if you want me to. I can take the guest room until you’re ready.”
Relief flickers across her face. “Yes. At least until I remember more.”
“Of course. Take your time, kotyonok.” I make the words gentle, but inside I’m already imagining the moment she won’t ask me to leave.
She smiles again, and it hits like a blade under my ribs. For a second I see the woman she might’ve been if she’d always been Katya instead of Alexandra. Mine without the lies. But that isn’t who she is, and I’ll never let myself forget it.
I leave her to settle in and retreat to my home office, where I pour myself three fingers of vodka.
The liquor burns down my throat, but it doesn’t burn away the image of her smile.
I kidnapped a federal agent.
I’m holding her prisoner and convincing her she’s my wife.
And I plan to make her love me before I destroy her.
Because she tried to ruin me.
Because I want revenge.
Because somewhere along the way, hatred bled into obsession.
I tell myself this is still about control. Still about evening the scales. But the truth is simpler.
I can’t let her go. And I never will.