Chapter 5
Maksim
What the fuck did I just do?
I step back from Kira, putting necessary distance between us while my brain tries to catch up with my body's betrayal. She's breathing hard, her lips swollen from my mouth, tears streaming down her face, and she's never looked more beautiful.
I hate that I noticed.
Hate that kissing her felt like coming home after six years in hell.
Hate that every cell in my body is screaming at me to pull her close again and never let go.
She's staring at me with those wide eyes—still the same shade of blue I used to dream about in my cell—and I can see hope blooming there. Hope that I'll believe her. That I'll forgive her. That we can somehow go back to what we were.
Not a chance.
I straighten my jacket and smooth down my tie. Her hair is a mess where my fingers tangled in it. Her dress is askew. There's a scrape on her shoulder from the wall.
Evidence of my weakness written all over her.
"Fix your dress," I say coldly. "You look like someone just fucked you against a wall."
She flinches like I slapped her. Good. She should hurt. Should feel even a fraction of what I've felt.
"Maksim—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't say my name like that. Like we're still... like you have any right to—"
“Why are you angry with me?” she whispers. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now. How are you here? I mourned you.”
I scoff. “I can see that. I guess the idea of marrying into money and power cut your grief short.”
Her eyes flash. “You asshole. You complete fucking asshole. You have no idea what my life is like. You don’t know what I’ve had to do to survive.”
I cock a brow. “I’m guessing it involved you on your back.”
Her hand comes up. I snatch her wrist. “Don’t fucking slap me again, Kira. I’m not the man you used to know. I will fucking snap your goddamn arm in two.”
She jerks her hand away. “Where were you?”
"Where have I been? You want to know where I've been?"
"Yes." Her voice is barely a whisper. "Please."
"Georgia." I let the word hang between us. "A private prison outside Tbilisi. Someone paid a lot of money to keep me there."
"Who? Why?”
"Six years, Kira." I step closer again, and she presses back against the wall.
"Six years of interrogation. Torture. Psychological warfare designed to break me into something useful or kill me trying.
Do you want the details? Should I describe what it feels like to have your bones broken systematically?
To be starved until you're desperate enough to eat things that would make you vomit? To be—"
"Stop." She's crying harder now, her hands over her mouth. "Please stop."
"Why? Does it hurt to hear?" My laugh is vicious. "Imagine how it felt to live through it. Imagine spending six years in hell while the woman who put you there built an empire and planned her wedding."
"I didn't put you there!" Her voice rises, desperate. "Maksim, I swear to God, I had nothing to do with your kidnapping. I thought you were dead. I wanted to die with you. I have never stopped loving you."
"You took over your family's organization within months of my disappearance.
" I count off on my fingers. "Built a reputation as the Ice Queen.
Made strategic alliances. Became one of the most powerful players in Moscow.
All while I was rotting in a cell. You needed me out of the way so you could have what you always wanted. "
"I built power because I needed to survive!
" She's shouting now, too loud, but I can see she doesn't care anymore.
"Your family—Roman—blamed my father for your death.
We were targets. I had to become strong, or we'd be killed.
Don't you understand? I was trying to survive, not capitalize on your death! "
The logic is sound. Semyon made the same argument. But I can't afford to believe it.
"Convenient explanation."
"It's the truth!" She grabs for me again, but I step back. "I loved you. I love you. Why would I—"
"Don't." The word comes out harsh. "Don't say that. Don't cheapen what we had with lies."
"It's not a lie!" Her voice breaks. "I never stopped loving you. Even when I thought you were dead. Even when I had to become someone else to survive. You were always—"
"If you loved me, you would have searched harder. Questioned the story. Refused to believe I was dead."
I'm grasping now, I know it, but I can't stop. "Instead, you accepted it and moved on."
"There was a body!" she shouts. "Roman identified it himself. There was evidence. A funeral. Your father died from grief six months later. What was I supposed to think?"
"You were supposed to know." The words come from somewhere raw and wounded. "You were supposed to feel it if I was still alive. I would know if you were dead, Kira. My heart would know."
Silence falls between us. She's staring at me like I just revealed something I didn't mean to show.
"You wanted me to know," she says slowly. "Even with a body, even with evidence, you wanted me to somehow know you were alive. That's not fair, Maksim. That's not—"
"Fair?" I laugh, and it sounds broken. "Nothing about this is fair. Nothing about spending six years being destroyed while everyone I loved moved on with their lives is fair. But here we are."
I can see her trying to find words, trying to reach me through the rage and pain. But I won't let her.
Because if I let her in, if I believe her innocence, then I have to face what that means: that I've spent six years hating the wrong person. That I'm about to destroy the woman I love based on a lie.
That possibility is worse than any torture I endured.
I start fixing my clothing properly—straightening my tie, buttoning my jacket, erasing any evidence of what just happened. She watches me, and I can see the moment she realizes I'm leaving.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to the party." I brush off my sleeves. "I came here to make a scene, remember? Let everyone know I'm back. Can't do that hiding in a garden."
"Maksim, please. We need to talk about this. About what really happened—"
"We're done talking." I turn to face her fully.
"Here's what's going to happen: you're going to go back to your engagement party.
Smile for Roman. Play the dutiful fiancée.
And I'm going to systematically destroy everything you've built.
Your organization. Your reputation. Your power. All of it. I will destroy you."
"Why?" The question comes out broken. "If you're not sure I betrayed you, why would you—"
"Because I need to." The truth slips out before I can stop it. "Because if I don't have revenge, I don't have anything."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and I see pity there. I can't stomach her pity.
“I can help you.”
I smirk. “You already did. Thanks for breaking the dry spell, by the way. Six years is a long time. Good to know some things still work."
I watch the words land like bullets. Watch her face crumple. Watch the Ice Queen crack.
Then I turn and walk away before I can take it back. The party is in full swing when I step back into the ballroom.
Then someone sees me.
The silence spreads like ripples in water. One person stops talking. Then another. Then a whole cluster. Within seconds, the entire ballroom is quiet, everyone staring at the ghost who just walked out of the garden.
Let them stare. Let them see.
I move through the crowd with my head high, shoulders back, every inch the Barinov heir. People part for me like I'm carrying a plague, and maybe I am. The plague of uncomfortable truths and disrupted plans.
Then I catch sight of him.
Roman stands near the center of the room with a drink in his hand.
He smiles at me, holding up his glass in invitation for me to join him. I walk to him. Let everyone watch this reunion. He pulls me into a hug.
“You're alive. Thank God, you're alive."
The embrace is brief but witnessed by everyone in the room. When he pulls back, there are actual tears in his eyes.
"Good to see you again,” I say.
He puts one hand on my shoulder. “We have much to discuss.”
“Yes, we do.”
“But tonight, we celebrate.”
“Yes, I noticed. I hear congratulations are in order.”
"Yes."
Roman's hand remains on my shoulder as his eyes scan my face with what looks like genuine concern. "The scars," he says quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear over the resumed murmur of conversation around us. "Maksim, what did they do to you?"
I resist the urge to pull away from his touch. "These?" I gesture vaguely at my face. "One of many."
His jaw tightens, and I watch something dark flicker across his features. Anger, maybe. Or a good imitation of it. "Who was responsible? Tell me, and I'll make them pay. Every single one of them will suffer for what they did to you."
The vow sounds sincere. Passionate, even. But something about Roman's righteous fury feels... rehearsed.
Still, I play along. "I appreciate the sentiment."
"How did you escape?" He guides me toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the worst of the staring. “Who did we bury?”
I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. "Eventually, I found an opportunity. Took it. Made my way back."
"That's..." He shakes his head. "That's incredible. You must have been through hell."
"Something like that."
"And how long have you been back? In Moscow, I mean." His eyes search mine, looking for something. Information. Confirmation. I'm not sure what.
"A few days. Took me some time to get my bearings. Figure out what I missed."
"A few days." Roman repeats the words slowly. I can practically see him calculating. Wondering what I've learned in those few days. Who I've talked to. What conclusions I've drawn. "You should have come to me immediately. I could have helped you."
"I needed time to process." I meet his gaze directly.
"Of course. Of course." He squeezes my shoulder again before finally releasing me. "But you're here now. That's what matters. We have so much to discuss—your father's affairs, the organization, your rightful place in everything."
My rightful place. Interesting choice of words.
"I'm sure we do," I say. "But tonight is your celebration. I wouldn't want to take away from that."
Something flashes in his eyes—relief, maybe—before he masks it with a smile. "Nonsense. Your return is cause for celebration too. In fact—" He raises his voice, addressing the room.
"Everyone! A toast!"
The crowd quiets immediately, all eyes turning toward us.
"Tonight, we celebrate not just my engagement," Roman announces, his glass held high. “The return of a man I consider my family. My son!”
Son, my ass.
But I still stand beside him and let my reintroduction to the world be completed.