Chapter Nine
Juliet
I open my laptop.
Pull up the nanny cam app.
Six feeds. Six angles.
Vitaly’s house.
I’ve been watching him for a week. Meeting a sweet man like Vitaly shouldn’t be rushed.
But that bitch Oksana has forced my hand.
So, I’ve watched. From home. At work. On my phone, running errands. Cramming like it’s finals week and the subject is My Future Husband 101. Learning his patterns. His routines.
The way he moves through his kitchen like it’s a sacred space.
The way he hums while he works.
The way he kneads dough with those massive, gentle hands that should absolutely not belong to a man that soft and unclaimed.
I click on the living room feed.
Empty.
Kitchen feed.
Also empty.
Bedroom.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed.
Head in his hands.
Still in his work clothes. Flour still dusting his forearms.
He hasn’t even showered yet.
My chest tightens.
I zoom in.
His shoulders are shaking.
Just slightly.
Oh, baby. You don’t get to fall apart alone. That’s what I’m for.
I check the timestamp.
Twenty minutes ago.
I scroll back.
Rewind to an hour before.
And then I see her.
Oksana.
In his house.
In his fucking house?
Who the hell does she think she is, trespassing in my territory?
She’s pacing. Gesturing. Her mouth moving fast and sharp.
Vitaly just stands there.
Taking it.
She grabs something off his counter.
A coffee mug.
Throws it at the wall.
It shatters.
Vitaly doesn’t flinch.
He just... stands there.
Like he’s used to this.
Like this isn’t the first time someone’s broken something he loves and expected him to sweep it up.
My vision goes red.
That wasn’t just any mug. It’s the one he drinks from every morning and night. His comfort mug. His ritual mug. She didn’t just break ceramic; she stepped on his quiet.
I grip the edge of my desk.
Breathe.
Count to ten.
Don’t spiral.
Don’t add one more body to Elliot’s spreadsheets.
Yet.
I watch as Oksana gets in his face.
Points at him.
Her mouth forming words I can’t hear but can feel.
Threats.
Demands.
Violence wrapped in Russian consonants. Every syllable a little bullet I can’t hear but fully intend to return to sender.
Then she leaves.
Slams the door.
And Vitaly?
Vitaly slides down the wall.
Sits on his kitchen floor.
Surrounded by shattered ceramic.
And just... breaks.
Not in the way I want him to.
Not the soft unraveling you do against someone’s chest.
But the ugly, lonely kind that should never happen in an empty kitchen.
I scroll forward.
He finally stands.
Slow. Exhausted.
He gets a broom.
Sweeps up the broken mug.
Every. Single. Piece.
Carefully. Methodically.
Like he thinks if he’s gentle enough with the ruins, they won’t hurt him on the way out. Which is why he needs me.
Then he washes his hands.
Dries them on a towel.
And he starts baking.
Not for the bakery.
Not for customers.
Just... baking.
He pulls out flour, sugar, butter.
His hands move automatically.
Mixing. Kneading. Shaping.
He’s making something small.
Something sweet.
Crumble cake, maybe.
The kind you eat alone with tea when you need to feel human again.
The kind of soft, warm thing I want him feeding me in bed while I kiss the stress off his throat.
I watch him work.
Watch his shoulders slowly relax.
Watch the tension leave his jaw.
This is who he is.
Not a criminal.
Not a money launderer.
Just a man who bakes to feel safe.
A man who cleans up broken things and makes something sweet from the wreckage.
A man I’m absolutely keeping. Bubble-wrapping. And labeling Fragile: Mine.
I close the laptop.
Sit back.
My hands are shaking.
From rage.
From need.
From the absolute certainty that if I don’t bring him home soon, Oksana is going to destroy him.
I grab my phone.
Open my calendar.
Tomorrow.
It has to be tomorrow.
I know his routine.
Wednesdays he goes to the farmer’s market.
Buys fresh produce for the weekend pastries.
He always stops at the flower stall.
Always buys sunflowers.
They remind him of his grandmother, he told Noah once.
He puts them on his counter and pretends she’s still there to see them.
I can work with that.
I’ll be at the flower stall.
Soft. Sweet. Surprised.
“Oh, excuse me, do you know if these are fresh?”
He’ll smile. He’ll help.
He’s too kind not to.
And that’s when I’ll have him.
I stand.
Walk to my closet.
Pull out the dress I’ve been saving.
Pale yellow. Soft cotton. Buttons down the front.
Delicate. Innocent.
The kind of dress that says, I’m harmless. I promise.
The kind of dress that makes men want to protect you right up until they realize you’re the thing they should’ve been warned about.
I lay it on my bed.
Then I text the group chat.
Me: Tomorrow. I’m closing the net.
Three dots appear immediately.
Orion: About fucking time.
Noah: Be careful. Please.
Callum: Can I watch?
Elliot: Juliet.
Me: I’ll be safe. I promise. He just needs to know there’s a way out. And I’m it.
I set my phone down.
Look at the dress.
Tomorrow, Vitaly Volkov is going to meet me.
And his whole life is going to change.
He just doesn’t know it yet.