Chapter 20
KONSTANTIN
I stride into the living room, fury boiling just under my skin.
The entire apartment seems to quiet as soon as I appear, conversations dropping off, everyone alert—waiting to see what I’ll do.
Viktor is by the window, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Maksim leans against the far wall, eyes wary.
Anya looks up from her phone, her gaze flicking between me and Nadya, as if she can sense the violence in the air.
I scan the room until my eyes land on the man standing near the doorway—broad-shouldered, watchful, trying too hard to blend in. I don’t know his name, but I know his face now. I remember it from the security footage Viktor showed me. The man assigned to retrieve Nadya and Mila.
I step right up to him, crowding his space, my voice ice-cold. “You were the one who brought my wife and daughter here?”
He nods, uncertain. “Yeah, I—uh—”
I cut him off with a look. “Did you put your hands on her?”
He hesitates, eyes darting to Viktor, searching for backup that doesn’t come. “She was fighting, she—she wouldn’t get in the car. I just—”
“That’s not what I asked,” I growl, stepping closer, crowding him until he has nowhere to go. “Did you lay a hand on her?”
He swallows hard, shrinking a little under the weight of my rage.
I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him against the wall, voice rising, just enough to make sure everyone hears me.
“Let me make something clear—if any of you ever lay a hand on Nadya, or on my daughter, if you so much as leave a bruise…” I squeeze tighter, his feet barely scraping the floor.
“I’ll make sure you never touch anything again. ”
I drive my fist into the man’s ribs, then slam him down to the floor and kick him, making sure he feels every ounce of pain he tried to deliver to Nadya. He tries to curl up, but I drag him back up and slam his face into the side of the table.
“Konstantin! Stop!” Nadya’s voice cuts through the noise, hoarse and desperate. She grabs my arm, nails digging in, trying to pull me off. “You’re going to kill him! That’s enough!”
I wrench free, my vision swimming red, my breath ragged. “Don’t do that, Nadya,” I snarl, my voice raw from rage. “Don’t defend him. Don’t ask me to let it go.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she cries, her voice cracking, fear and disbelief flickering across her face. “This isn’t who you were—this isn’t who Mila needs you to be!”
I glare at her, breathing hard, blood dripping from my fist. “You want me to let men hurt you? You want me to stand by and do nothing?”
She shakes her head, tears gathering, trembling with anger and worry. “I want you to be better than this. I want Mila to have a father, not a monster.”
My hands shake with adrenaline and pain. I look at her, at the room full of witnesses—Viktor’s cold eyes, Maksim’s silence, Anya’s shock—and then at the man gasping on the floor, already battered nearly senseless.
The room is thick with judgment and fear, but I hold Nadya’s gaze, my voice low and cold. “If anyone ever lays a hand on you again, there won’t be anything left for you to stop.”
Nadya stares at me, her breath shallow, wounded by more than bruises.
Her face is pale with fury and something else—betrayal, maybe, or heartbreak.
I watch her go, her shoulders stiff, not looking back, and a hollow ache punches through my chest. I almost call out, but the words die in my throat.
All I hear is her footsteps, echoing down the hall, the door closing behind her harder than a slap.
I stand over the bloodied man, chest heaving. Maksim steps forward, watching me with that wary, assessing look he never quite loses.
“Take him,” I say, my voice flat. “Get him cleaned up. I don’t want to see his face again tonight.”
Maksim nods, hauls the man up by the arm, and drags him from the room, leaving a dark smear of blood trailing across the tile. The apartment feels colder when he’s gone, but the silence doesn’t last.
Viktor’s watching me, his expression unreadable, hands tucked into his pockets. He waits until the room empties, then steps close enough that I have no choice but to pay attention.
“Your wife is lying to you, you know,” Viktor says quietly. “She’s not telling you everything.”
I stiffen, anger and unease prickling along my skin. “What are you talking about?”
He leans in, dropping his voice. “We found her with a guy. Not one of ours—someone we’re assuming is ex-military. Dangerous. Not the sort to be caught up in anything ordinary. Do you know what she’s involved in, Konstantin?”
I shake my head, the truth twisting in my gut. I want to tell Viktor he’s wrong, that Nadya isn’t capable of those kinds of secrets, but I can’t. Not after everything. Not after how quickly she ran, how determined she was to stay hidden—even from me.
Viktor studies me, searching for a crack. “You need to ask yourself if you’re willing to keep pretending you know her, or if you’re finally ready to find out what she’s really running from.”
I say nothing, just stare at the door where Nadya disappeared.
The room is too quiet after Viktor’s words, and I can’t ignore the way they settle in my chest, heavy and corrosive.
I wipe the blood from my knuckles, flexing my hand, trying to get the tremor out.
I want to go after Nadya, demand she tell me everything, make her look me in the eye and swear she hasn’t betrayed me, hasn’t gotten herself tangled in something I can’t fix with violence.
But I don’t move. I stand there, frozen in the wreckage of my own anger, Viktor’s gaze heavy on my shoulders.
“What did you find?” I ask, forcing my voice even.
“Still trying to figure it out. But you want to know what she’s running from? Start with him.”
I think of Nadya—her pale face, the lines of exhaustion, the bruises she tried to hide. The way she looked at me a moment ago, half-angry, half-afraid. I want to believe she’s only protecting Mila, that every secret is for our daughter’s sake. But doubt claws at me, raw and insistent.
I grit my teeth. “If there’s something she’s hiding, I’ll get it out of her. Nobody’s going to touch her—or Mila. Not him, not anyone else.”
Viktor just gives me a long, unreadable look. “Don’t let pride make you blind,” he says softly. “Ask her, before you decide who to trust.”
He turns away, leaving me alone with my anger, my pride, and a storm of suspicion that refuses to settle. I stare at the closed door where Nadya vanished, my fist throbbing, the urge to go after her nearly overwhelming.
Viktor’s words echo, leaving an aftertaste of doubt I can’t swallow. I rub blood from my knuckles, still staring at the empty doorway, when Anya moves closer—her steps soft, measured, always so poised even with chaos still thick in the air.
She doesn’t bother with sympathy for the man Maksim dragged away, just studies me with those cool, intent eyes. “You did what you had to do,” she says quietly, her voice a silk thread meant only for me. “You protected what’s yours.”
I barely acknowledge her, distracted, my mind tangled in what Viktor just said and what Nadya’s hiding. I know Anya is standing close, the line of her body angled toward mine, the faint scent of her perfume coiling up with every breath.
She touches my arm, lingering, almost a caress. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone, you know. If you ever need someone who actually understands, I’m here.”
Her presence is unmistakable—her attention, her offer—but it barely registers. All I can see is the way Nadya looked at me, the pain and accusation in her eyes, the way she didn’t flinch from the blood or the anger.
I flex my aching hand, jaw tight. “Not now, Anya,” I murmur, more out of exhaustion than anything else. I don’t have it in me to be gentle, or to pretend I want what she’s offering. My head is pounding with too many questions, too much regret.
She lingers a moment, searching my face, then lets her hand fall. “If you need me, you know where to find me,” she says, her tone velvet and just a little wounded.
I nod absently, already half-lost in the worry and doubt.
Hours pass before I let myself go to her. By the time I open Nadya’s door, she’s sitting at the foot of the bed, knees drawn up, her arms wrapped tight around herself like armor. She doesn’t look at me right away. Her eyes are on the window, the light outside fading into dusk.
I step inside, but before I can speak, the quiet is broken by the sound of heels and shuffling feet.
One after another, women file in behind me, arms full of silk and velvet, hangers clacking, boxes and garment bags piling up at the end of the bed.
It’s a small army of stylists and housekeepers, faces politely blank, setting out dresses in every color and cut.
Nadya looks up, brows drawn tight, her voice flat and suspicious. “What’s this?”
I cross my arms, meeting her gaze. “Get ready. We have a party to attend tonight.”
She doesn’t move, her mouth set in a hard line. “I’m not going to any party.” Her nose flares, and I see the anger and the exhaustion burning under her skin, the same refusal I’ve always both hated and loved about her.
I step closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear, my tone equal parts command and plea. “This isn’t a choice, Nadya. It’s important. You’re coming.”
She lifts her chin, eyes blazing, her fingers curling tighter around the edge of the bedspread. “You can drag me through hell, Konstantin, but you can’t make me smile for your friends.”
For a heartbeat, all the tension from earlier crackles between us.
I don’t back down. “You don’t have to smile. Just be there. I need you by my side tonight.”
She stares at me, searching for any weakness, any place to push back—but I hold her gaze, letting her see that this isn’t just about power or pride. It’s about survival, reputation, and sending a message to everyone watching.
Behind us, the stylists wait in uneasy silence, holding their silks and sparkles between them like shields.
Nadya finally looks away, shoulders stiff, her voice a low growl. “This isn’t over.”
“No,” I say quietly, “it’s not.”