Chapter 21
Kiryan
Three Days Earlier
A few hours ago, I walked into Isabella's apartment on the Upper East Side.
I tossed the test results onto her coffee table. The pages slid over the glass and stopped right by her hand.
"Tell me. Whose kid is it?"
Isabella's face blanched for a beat. Then she straightened her spine. "I don't know what you mean."
"I gave you one chance to tell the truth."
Her eyes flicked to the date in the lower right corner. "The report is real. I am pregnant. Yours."
I hadn't given a damn about digging through an ex's sex life.
But she had tried to shove some mystery pregnancy into my marriage and drive my wife out. If she wanted that war, I would've ripped up every secret she'd tried to bury.
There wasn't just one report on the table. Clinic intake records. Hotel charges from her month in Europe. The date she'd given the doctor when she booked the appointment. Screenshots from the hallway security cameras. All of it.
"The clinic estimated conception at about two weeks before you flew back," I said, sliding the first photo toward her. "1:16 a.m. A blond guy walked out of the elevator with you and went into your room."
Second photo—another man. Third—only a profile, the ID results tucked beneath it.
Then more. Different nights. Different men. Same hallway. Same door.
I didn't need to see what happened inside. The way her fingers clenched the edge of the table told me enough. Her perfect manicure went bloodless, but she still held on to that polished, trained calm.
"That was socializing."
"Your 'socializing' needed them in your room after midnight?"
"I was drunk."
"Every time?"
She shut her mouth.
Anger burned up like hot metal, climbing from my gut into my chest. Not because of betrayal. We'd been over a long time ago. Because even now, she still believed if she wore that fragile little face, I'd explain everything away for her.
I used to.
Photos could be misunderstood. Kisses could be accidents. Lies could be forgiven if they came from fear. Every time Elena tried to tell me the truth, I worried first about whether Isabella would get hurt.
I'd made excuses for Isabella so many times she started thinking my trust didn't have a bottom. And Elena finally stopped waiting.
"You were the one who forged the divorce papers."
Isabella's breath hitched. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I opened another file.
The first draft had been created on her assistant's computer.
My signature had been lifted from a foundation authorization form from six months ago—cropped, cleaned, then pasted into the signature line.
The audio had been stitched from six separate conversations.
The background noise came from three different rooms. The send trail looped through two layers, and the final account used had been paid by her assistant—on a card tied to the Rossi family.
It wasn't sloppy.
But she'd forgotten how I'd stayed alive in New York's underworld.
"I just loved you too much," she said, eyes rimmed red. "I was the one who was supposed to marry you. If Elena hadn't set me up and pushed me away, I'd be the one standing next to you. I only took back what was mine. Was that really wrong?"
"You disappeared without a word and thought everyone would just sit around waiting for you to come back?"
The softness in her eyes shattered. Her cheek twitched. "I was carrying your baby."
"How many times are you going to say that?" I kept my voice low. "That month overseas—you knew damn well what you did. Or did you not even know who the father was?"
"Shut up."
She snatched the report and crushed it in her fist.
"You never used to humiliate me like this."
"And you never used to try to con me with someone else's kid."
"Because you changed!" Her voice went sharp. "She changed you into this!"
My chest locked tight.
Elena had never told me she loved me. She'd never used marriage to demand a damn thing from me. She'd even stayed quiet when she should've explained—because she'd already decided I wouldn't believe her.
She had never been what blinded me.
Isabella had. And so had I.
"You used the papers and the audio to force her out," I said, staring at Isabella. "You knew she'd believe it because I'd let her down too many times."
She laughed—tears clinging to her lashes, venom in her voice.
"At least you got that right. I forged one sheet of paper.
But you were the one who made her believe it.
You picked me, over and over. You left her at the manor.
You made her watch you protect me. Without you, my lies wouldn't have been worth shit. "
Every word slid between my ribs like a blade.
I didn't deserve to argue.
"My mistake," I said. "I'll pay it back to her."
I went to the door and hit the intercom. "Get her out."
Two guards pushed in.
I looked at Isabella. "You aren't a guest of the Morozov family anymore. Pack your things. You leave New York today. And you stay away from Elena. You never show your face to me again."
She staggered back, disbelief on her face. "You're throwing me out?"
"I am informing you."
She moved toward me. The guards blocked her instantly.
"She won't forgive you," Isabella said, wrenching one hand free, her smile warped. "You think kicking me out will make her come back? She is living in Yegor's house now. While you are here digging into me, she is spending every day with your friend."
My jaw tightened so hard it hurt. The old scar inside me felt like somebody had cut it open again.
She caught it and went softer. "Maybe the person she was waiting for was never you."
I flicked my hand. The guards grabbed her arms and dragged her out.
"You'll regret this!" she screamed over her shoulder, the guards swallowing the sound as the door shut.
That was when Feodor sent Elena's location. There was a photo attached.
Elena stepped out of Yegor's car, an armful of paintings in her hands. Yegor held the top of the door frame so she didn't bump her head.
The smile she tipped up at him made my lungs seize.
By the time my black sedan stopped outside Yegor's villa, it was already dark.
The iron gate stayed shut. Through the bars, I spotted Elena in the yard immediately.
She wore a light shirt smeared with paint. Her hair was loosely tied back. She stood by an easel. Yegor said something, and she looked down and laughed, her shoulders shaking a little.
That wasn't the fake, polished smile from a banquet. Around me, she almost never looked that loose.
Yegor handed her a rag. Their hands didn't touch, the space between them careful—still, I wanted to break his fucking hand.
The guard at the gate refused to let me in. Minutes later, Yegor walked out from the main house alone. Elena lifted her head too.
Our eyes met through the bars.
My spine went rigid. The smile vanished from her mouth. Those hazel eyes used to look at me with this careful little light. Now there was only wariness.
Yegor came out the side door and pulled it shut behind him.
"Leave."
I got out of the car. "Bring her out."
"She doesn't want to see you."
"You decided that for her?"
"No. I respect the decision she already made."
He was younger than me, didn't carry the same constant guard in his stance, but he didn't give an inch as he stood in front of that door. We'd used to drink at the same table and talk business. Now I only wanted him out from between me and my wife.
"She is my wife."
"When you handed her the divorce papers, you didn't act like it."
"The papers were forged. The audio was cut up. I need to tell her myself."
"I can pass the message along."
"I need to see her."
"No."
I stepped forward.
The side door snapped open.
Elena stood half a step behind Yegor. She looked paler than I remembered, thinner too. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, showing narrow wrists.
"Elena."
Her lashes trembled. Her breathing went shallow. Her gaze paused on my face for a second—then slid away fast.
That tiny reaction lit something in my blood. I reached out on instinct, ready to pull her back where she belonged.
"Don't touch me."
She stepped back, keeping space between us.
I stopped with less than a step between us. The scent of orange blossom hit me—so familiar it tightened my throat. One inch closer and I could've had my hand at her waist.
"I didn't sign it," I said, fast. "The recording was fake too."
"I heard it." She looked up. "So what?"
"Come back with me. We talk this out."
She gave a quick laugh—cold as glass. "You still only know how to give orders."
"I am fixing it. You are my wife. That agreement and that recording—none of it was real."
"I signed the divorce papers. And everything you did, all this time, made me have to believe it was real."
I couldn't deny it.
My hesitation was real. The distance was real. Staying at Isabella's side when Elena needed answers was real. The fake papers had only said out loud what she'd already believed was inevitable.
"Give me ten minutes."
"No."
"Five."
"Kiryan... I don't want to see you."
She'd never shut me down that clean before.
That edge—new on her—cut me and held my eyes at the same time.
I'd lived through betrayal, shootouts, family purges. I'd spent my life finding everyone's price across a negotiation table. But I couldn't find a single sentence that made her stay.
Because she'd never asked me for anything money could replace.
"You can't keep living in another man's house."
Her face went flat. "At least that man respects me."
It felt like a punch under my ribs.
Yegor stepped between us. "You let Isabella do all that shit. And now you show up begging forgiveness? Don't you think it is too late?"
"Get out of the way."
"This is my house."
"She is my wife."
"She is a person first."
My fist tightened.
I could've had my men pin Yegor down, shoved Elena into the car, locked the doors, hauled her back to the manor. The old me would've done it. If something belonged to me, I didn't let it leave.
But Elena wasn't something.
She looked at me, and the caution in her eyes was stronger than the iron gate.
I dragged in a breath, forced my hand to unclench, and took a step back. "I'm not taking you today."
"Don't come back," she said. "Not ever."
I didn't promise.
She read it anyway, exhaustion flashing through her eyes. "I don't need your explanations."
"But you are going to hear them."
"That is your choice. Not mine."
She turned and walked back into the yard.
?????
A week later, I finally got a way close to Elena.
At the auction, she stood in the center of the gallery.
She wore a long black dress that bared the delicate line of her collarbones.
Her hair was pinned up, a few curls falling by her cheek.
She looked brighter than she ever had beside me.
It made me proud—and jealous enough to want to tear out every pair of eyes on her.
The days after I left Yegor's villa, I kept trying to get Elena back.
I sent two hundred white roses. The flowers and card came back to my office untouched. I sent a full set of paints, canvas, brushes, and a new worktable. The next day it all came back, boxes still sealed.
Elena didn't react to any of it. She refused every request. So I bought the one doorway she couldn't slam shut in my face.
Right then she was explaining her brushwork to an older collector, her eyes bright.
Yegor walked past me in a gray suit, bidding paddle in hand.
The auctioneer struck the gavel. People took their seats.
Elena finally saw me. She paused. The smile left her mouth. Our eyes caught over the crowd, tangled hard, and heat rushed through my blood.
She looked away first.
It wasn't forgiveness. But it meant she still couldn't completely ignore me.
Her painting rolled up onto the platform. On the canvas, a window stood half open. The room inside was empty. Light outside cut through gray-blue curtains and left a golden slash across the floor.
The title read: Exit.
"Opening bid: twenty thousand."
Yegor lifted his paddle first. "Thirty."
I raised mine immediately. "One hundred."
The room went silent for a second.
"Two hundred."
"Five hundred."
Whispers spread from the back rows. Elena stood off to the side of the stage, already frowning.
Yegor raised his paddle again. "Six hundred."
"One million."
Applause broke out. Yegor didn't clap. He lowered his voice. "She doesn't want a date with you."
"Then why are you bidding?"
"To stop you."
My fist tightened on my knee.
"One point two." He raised his paddle.
I didn't hesitate. "Two million."
The entire room went dead quiet.
Elena looked at me. Shock, then pure, undisguised anger.
I met her stare and didn't lower the paddle.
She wanted to live off her paintings. She had. I wasn't handing out charity—I was making every person who ever dismissed her see it: her work deserved the highest price in the room.
And I was buying myself one more chance.
"Two million. Going once."
Yegor stared at me.
"Going twice."
His hand hovered on the edge of his paddle, but he didn't lift it again.
"Sold."
The gavel cracked down. Applause thundered.
I didn't look at the painting that was mine now. I only watched Elena.
She'd rejected my flowers, my gifts, my letters.
Now I'd bought two hours she couldn't end early.