Chapter 18 - Trifon
I felt the air shift around us the moment I said the word wife.
Akim Fyodorov looks ready to commit murder in this crowded ballroom. Good, I think to myself. Let him feel what it’s like to lose control of a situation for once.
Yulia’s silent beside me, her hand trembling in mine. But I don’t let go.
“I suggest you rethink your alliances,” I say, quiet steel in my tone. “Your daughter is under my protection now. Which means your family is, too. So long as you don’t give me a reason to change that.”
“Trifon,” Yulia whispers, her voice barely audible. “Don’t.”
I feel her stiffen beside me, hear the small intake of breath. I know I’m being cruel. But this confrontation has been brewing for months. The Fyodorovs need to understand precisely what kind of mistake they’re making by aligning with the Zakharovs.
“Are you threatening us?” Ilya snarls.
“I’m making a recommendation,” I reply. “The Zakharovs have a habit of destroying their allies from the inside out. Ask the Petrovs. Oh wait—” I smile again, sharper this time. “You can’t. They’re all dead.”
Akim’s eyes narrow to slits. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
“Perhaps. But now’s not the time to get into details,” I gesture at the party around us.
Another beat of silence. Tension coils tight enough to snap.
“We’ll talk soon,” Akim says, lips thin, eyes colder than hell freezing over. And just like that, he turns. Walks away. His sons follow.
I guide Yulia away, my hand firm against her back, and she lets me lead. She moves like a sleepwalker, her body rigid under my touch.
I nod goodbyes politely to acquaintances, maintaining the appearance of calm. On the surface, we are just another couple leaving early. But underneath, I can feel her slipping further from me with every step.
“We’re leaving,” I tell Valentin as we pass. “Handle things here.”
She doesn’t acknowledge him. Doesn’t look for my sisters. Doesn’t say a word as I collect her wrap from the coat check and gently settle it over her bare shoulders.
And somehow, that is more painful than if she had screamed.
The car is waiting, as always. I help her inside, slide in beside her, and signal the driver to go. The privacy partition rises, sealing us in silence.
I wait for her to say something. I know I surprised her tonight, and I expect her to be furious.
But she doesn’t say a word. Her arms are folded. Her spine is rigid. Her eyes are fixed on a point far away, and I know she’s seeing everything but the road.
“Yulia,” I begin, not sure what I’m even going to say.
“Don’t.” The word is ice.
So I don’t. I let the silence stretch between us, watching as the city lights slide across her face, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
I realize with a sinking feeling that I’ve miscalculated. I thought she’d be angry, yes. But this absolute withdrawal? I didn’t prepare for this.
I let the silence stretch. Let her sit with it. I need her to calm down before I speak. To see that I did what I had to.
The ride seems endless. By the time we pull up to the house, the tension in the car is thick enough to choke on. I follow her inside, watching as she moves through the foyer, straight for the stairs.
“Yulia,” I try again. “We need to talk about this.”
She whirls on me.
“Yulia—”
“You brought me there to show them off. Like a trophy. Like a fucking pawn. You stood there and declared to my family that I’m yours—without ever asking me if I wanted to be used like that.”
My jaw clenches. “I didn’t use you. I made a power move to keep them in check.”
“Exactly.” She laughs bitterly. “A power move. That’s all this was to you.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?” She stalks closer. “Then why didn’t you tell me they’d be there? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Because I was afraid you’d react like this,” I say, stepping closer. “And I needed to let your family know what was happening because the Zakharovs are dangerous. If your family allies with them, it puts all of you in danger! I needed to protect you, Yulia. Don’t you—”
“Protect me?” she cuts me off with a bitter laugh. “Don’t twist this on me. You don’t care about me, because if you did, you wouldn’t have sprung this on me.”
I hesitate. “Yulia—”
Her mouth parts. “You needed me blindsided so you could make a stronger statement. This wasn’t about protecting any of us!”
“Please, let me explain.” The guilt twists in my chest. Now? When I look back at it, I realize I should have told her. Of course I should have told her. I was too much of a coward, not wanting to ruin the peace we had built. But before I can put any of this into words, she cuts me off.
“No.” She holds up a hand. “You don’t get to talk right now. How long?” she demands. “How long have you known they were coming to Boston?”
“A week,” I admit.
Her face crumples for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “And you didn’t give me even a moment to prepare?”
“I thought—”
“You thought what?” she cuts in. “That it would be better to watch me fall apart in public? You claimed to care about me. And tonight, you paraded me in front of the people who raised me without a single word of preparation—like I was nothing but proof of your reach.”
“That wasn’t my intention, I promise you that.
All I was thinking was that your family was bound to come for you eventually and that the Zakharovs know we’re connected,” I explain gently.
“I couldn’t let your family align with the Zakharovs because the Zakharovs?
They would have used you against me. Before your father could try to drag you back for their deals, I made it clear they can’t. ”
“They don’t care about me,” she says, quieter now. “They never did. I saw it tonight. I felt it. They were furious because I cost them a business deal. That’s what I am to them.”
Her voice breaks.
“And to you?” Her eyes lift to mine. “What am I to you?”
I step forward. “Mine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m not good at saying the pretty version, Yulia. But I brought you into this house to protect you. I gave you the clinic. I gave you power. I gave you my name.”
“And you didn’t give me a choice,” she says, voice sharp. “But fine. I’ve played along. I’ve made it work. I’ve even started to believe that maybe, maybe there was something real between us.”
“There is something real—”
“Then why do I feel like a fucking orphan tonight?”
She’s crying now, the anger giving way to something rawer. Deeper.
And there it is. The real wound. Not my deception, though that cut deep. But the realization that her family—the one she’d built her life around, the one she’d trusted implicitly—had been using her all along.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “I’m sorry they failed you.”
She closes her eyes, swaying slightly on her feet. When she opens them, the anger seems to have drained away, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
“I need to lie down,” she says, turning toward the stairs. “I don’t feel well.”
I reach for her again, unable to stop myself. This time, she doesn’t pull away immediately. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” she says, but there’s no heat behind it now. Just weariness. “I need to be alone.”
She takes a step away, and that’s when I notice it. A small, dark stain spreading on her dress. Another step, and a drop hits the marble floor.
Blood.
“Yulia,” I say, alarm sharpening my voice. “You’re bleeding.”
She looks down, confusion crossing her face before realization dawns. Her hand goes to her stomach.
“Oh,” she whispers, and the word carries a weight that stops my heart.
She blinks rapidly, and a hand flies to her stomach.
“Yulia?”
She stumbles into me, and my blood runs cold.
“YULIA.”
She collapses into my arms, a soft cry escaping her lips as I catch her before she hits the floor.
“Call Maksim!” I shout toward the hall for my driver. “Get the fucking car!”
Her skin is clammy. Her breath is shallow.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, already lifting her into my arms. “I’ve got you. Stay with me.”
But I don’t know if I’m saying it for her or for myself.