22. The Confrontation
The Confrontation
Ididn't sleep that night.
I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word Aleksander had said.
Every confession. Every lie. Every moment of tenderness that had been tainted by calculation.
The photograph was burned into my mind—Elena's face, her smile, the way she'd looked at the camera like she had all the time in the world.
She hadn't had time.
Neither would I, if I stayed.
By dawn, I'd made a decision. I dressed in jeans, a sweater, the boots I'd worn on the farm. I packed nothing—there was nothing I wanted to take from this house. I walked down the stairs, my footsteps silent on the marble, and I headed for the front door.
He was waiting for me.
Aleksander stood in the foyer, his back to me, his hands clasped behind him. He was wearing the same clothes as last night, rumpled and tired, like he hadn't slept either.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
"Don't try to stop me."
He turned. His grey eyes were bloodshot, the shadows beneath them darker than I'd ever seen. He looked old. Broken. Like a man who'd been carrying a weight for too long.
"I'm not going to stop you," he said. "I'm going to ask you to stay."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
I walked toward him, my boots echoing in the silence. The house was quiet—the servants weren't up yet, the sons still in their rooms. It was just the two of us, the way it had been in the beginning.
"Last night," I said. "You told me you loved me. You told me I was the first person since Elena who made you feel alive. And then you told me you were using me as bait." I stopped in front of him. "How am I supposed to trust anything you say?"
"You're not supposed to trust me. You're supposed to trust that I love you."
"Those are the same thing."
"No." He stepped closer, his hands reaching for mine.
I pulled away. "Love and trust are not the same.
I love you, Monika. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone.
But I don't trust myself. I don't trust my instincts.
I spent twenty years hunting the man who killed my wife, and I'm so close I can taste it.
And I'm willing to do anything to finish it. "
"Anything? Even if it kills me?"
"It won't kill you. I won't let it." His voice cracked.
"I've had men watching you since the moment you walked into this house.
I have guards on the perimeter. I have eyes on the Volkovs.
I have a plan—a plan that's been in motion for years.
And you're part of it. But you're also—" He stopped.
Swallowed. "You're also the only thing keeping me sane. "
"That's not love. That's obsession."
"Maybe they're the same thing."
I felt the tears building, hot and sharp, behind my eyes. I blinked them back. I wouldn't cry. Not in front of him.
"You told me Elena was the love of your life," I said. "And now you're telling me I am. You can't have both."
"Elena was the love of my life. But she's dead. She's been dead for twenty years. And you—you're alive. You're here. You're real." He reached for me again, and this time I let him take my hands. "I loved her. I'll always love her. But I love you too. Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a tool to you. A means to an end. You said it yourself—you're using me to draw out your wife's killers."
"That's not all you are."
"It's enough."
He pulled me closer, his hands cupping my face, his forehead pressing against mine.
"You can hate me," he said. "You can leave. But you'll never find anyone who loves you the way I do. The way we do. You're ours, Monika. You were ours the moment you pulled that bullet out of my side."
I slapped him.
The sound echoed in the foyer, sharp and loud. His head snapped to the side, and I saw the red mark blooming on his cheek. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away.
He kissed me.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not a tender kiss. It was a kiss of desperation, of hunger, of everything he couldn't say. I bit his lip—hard, drawing blood. He tasted like copper, like salt, like the tears I wouldn't let fall.
He pushed me against the wall, his body hard against mine. His hands were rough, tearing at my clothes, and I let him. I let him because I was angry. Because I was hurt. Because I didn't know how else to feel.
He fucked me against the wall, rough and fast, his fingers digging into my hips. I clawed at his back, leaving marks, drawing blood. The pain was a relief—something I could feel, something that wasn't the hollow ache in my chest.
"I hate you," I said. "I hate you."
"I know."
"I should have left the moment I saw the cages."
"I know."
"I should have called the police. I should have run."
"You didn't." He thrust deeper, harder, his forehead pressed against mine. "You stayed. You're still here. That's love, Monika. That's the only kind of love I know."
I came with a sob, my body shuddering against his. He followed a moment later, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
When it was over, we slid to the floor, tangled in each other, the marble cold against my back. I stared at the ceiling, at the painted angels, at the god who wasn't watching.
"I don't know if I love you," I said. "Or if I'm just too tired to fight."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Does it matter?"
I didn't have an answer.
We lay on the floor until the sun rose.
The light crept through the windows, painting the foyer in shades of gold and pink. I could hear the servants stirring in the kitchen, the distant sound of water running, the soft murmur of voices.
I should have gotten up. I should have gone to my room, showered, pretended this hadn't happened.
But I didn't.
I lay there, my head on Aleksander's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
"Tell me about her," I said. "Elena. Tell me about the woman you loved."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice low and rough.
"She was brave. Brighter than anyone I've ever met. She made me laugh—really laugh, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep. She was pregnant when she died. I didn't know until after."
"Gabriel and Nathan?"
"They were already born. This was a third. A baby we'd been trying for years to have." He paused. "She was so happy. She'd been so happy. And then she was gone."
I felt the tears on his chest—his, not mine. I looked up. He was crying, silent tears sliding down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I don't want your pity."
"I'm not offering pity. I'm offering... understanding." I touched his face, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "You've been carrying this for years. You've been holding it alone. That's not strength. That's just loneliness."
"Monika..."
"I'm not going to leave." The words came out before I could stop them. "I don't know why. I don't know if it's love or exhaustion or something else. But I'm not going to leave."
He pulled me tighter, his arms wrapped around me like I was the only thing holding him together.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me. I'm not doing it for you."
"Then why?"
I thought about it. About the cages. About the warehouse. About the things I'd seen and done and agreed to.
"Because I have nowhere else to go," I said. "Because this is the only home I have. Because I'm broken too, and maybe we can be broken together."
He kissed my forehead. Soft. Gentle. The way he'd kissed me the night we'd first been together.
"Broken together," he repeated. "That's enough."
"For now."
We lay in silence, watching the sun rise, and I felt something shift in my chest. Something that might have been hope. Or resignation. Or something else entirely.
I didn't know.
I didn't care.
The day passed in a blur.
I ate breakfast with the family—Gabriel quiet, Nathan smirking, Aleksander stone-faced. No one mentioned the night before. No one mentioned the confrontation. We ate our eggs and pretended everything was normal.
But nothing was normal.
That night, I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling, and I thought about Elena. About her face, her smile, the baby she'd never held.
I thought about Aleksander, hunting her killers for twenty years. I thought about the plan he'd made, the way he was using me as bait.
And I thought about myself, lying in this bed, letting three men use me like a toy.
I should have left. I should have run the moment I saw the cages. But I hadn't. I was still here, still breathing, still existing in the space between them.
Maybe that was the choice I'd made.
Maybe that was the only choice I'd ever had.
I closed my eyes and slept without dreaming.