Chapter 22
Elena
"A date? You're saying a date?"
I stared at the paperwork the curator had handed me, sure I'd misheard.
The applause still hadn't died down. Minutes ago, my painting had sold for two million dollars. I'd been thinking how that money would put brushes in more kids' hands, how collectors would finally remember my name.
Then the fine print at the bottom stabbed my eyes like a needle.
The highest bidder would receive the opportunity to have dinner with the artist.
And the highest bidder had been Kiryan.
"It was a special arrangement for the charity auction," the curator said under his breath, his smile stiff. "It drove attention. Encouraged bidding."
"Strapping a date to my work doesn't make people see the art. It makes them watch the price tag." My fingertips went cold. "I agreed to donate a painting. I didn't agree to be sold with it."
"You signed the release."
"That wasn't in the release."
"The addendum was added after the event was confirmed. Your assistant should have emailed you."
"She didn't."
I kept my voice light, soft. My lungs still felt like they were packed with burning smoke.
I was sick of people deciding for me. My father had decided my marriage. Isabella had decided I should vanish. Kiryan had decided when I counted as his wife, and when I went back to being a substitute.
"I refuse." I closed the contract.
The curator's face changed. "The gavel already fell. If you cancel the dinner, you owe a penalty tied to the sale price."
He flipped to another page and jabbed at the line.
The number made my stomach twist hard.
I could take care of myself. I couldn't pay that.
"This is a trap."
"This is the rule. Dinner is only two hours. Then a photo. No boundary-crossing."
They'd set up a date with Kiryan behind my back, then promised me he wouldn't cross a line.
How thoughtful.
"She isn't going."
Yegor came up behind me. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, shoulders tight, the usual lazy look gone from his eyes.
Kiryan cut through the crowd toward us. Dark suit fitted over that broad back, face calm.
I knew that kind of calm. The kind a man wore right before he pulled a trigger.
He looked at my face, then at Yegor. The faint scar along his jaw shifted.
"Whether she goes or not is her choice," he said.
"Pretty words," Yegor sneered. "If you want it to be her choice, why did you run the price up to something she can't afford to walk away from?"
"Because I want the painting."
"You want her."
Kiryan didn't deny it.
Heat ran up my spine.
Goddamn it.
I hated that my body still remembered his hands on my waist, remembered how his breath had wrecked my heartbeat. A body didn't store consequences. It stored touch.
"That's enough," I said. "I'll handle it."
Yegor stepped in closer. "Even if we still do business, I have to say it. Isabella is pregnant with your kid, and you and Elena are already divorced. You let Isabella hurt her to hell and back, and now you come crawling in for forgiveness? What is that supposed to be?"
Collectors who'd been leaving turned to look. Staff clustered near the display, afraid to come closer.
Kiryan's gaze iced over. "This doesn't involve you."
"Her life involves me."
"Yeah?" Kiryan's mouth curled. "I haven't even settled my score with you. You took my wife, hid her in your place, and now you are trying to steal her out from under me."
"Ex-wife," I corrected.
His eyes snapped to my face like a nail. "I never signed."
I clenched the contract. "I did."
"I told you the agreement was forged. The recording was edited."
I forced myself to meet his stare. "And the days you spent with Isabella—those were forged too?"
A crack split his calm. Not guilt. Regret. And I'd paid too much for that look, too late.
"I'll explain everything to you," he said.
Yegor planted himself between us. "Where the hell were you earlier? When she was waiting, you were guarding Isabella. Now she is wrecked, and you suddenly want to explain. What good is that?"
Kiryan's shoulders dipped, just a fraction.
Danger.
"Move."
"No."
"Yegor." I reached for him.
Too late.
Kiryan grabbed his collar and slammed him into a pillar. A glass shattered—sharp as a gunshot. Yegor knocked a punch aside and cracked Kiryan across the cheekbone.
They went for each other, full-on.
Yegor was younger, faster. Kiryan moved like an animal that had made peace with pain—blocked an elbow, twisted an arm, drove a knee. Yegor grunted, then shoved him into the display table.
Security rushed in. Nobody dared to step close.
"Stop!"
Kiryan's fist caught Yegor's jaw. Yegor staggered, then lunged right back in.
My lungs felt like they were about to explode.
I shoved through the crowd and threw myself between them, palm hard to Kiryan's chest.
The muscle under my hand was rock. His heartbeat pounded heavy and fast. When he realized it was me, his face changed instantly.
"Back up," he said, gripping my shoulder like he meant to pull me behind him. "You'll get hurt."
"Then quit swinging."
His breathing stayed rough, gray eyes still lit with violence—then he actually stopped.
Yegor wiped blood off the corner of his mouth. "Elena. Come with me."
"I can't." I lifted the contract. "Kiryan paid two million. The penalty is based on the sale price. I can't pay it."
"I'll pay it."
"No."
He frowned. "This isn't the time to be proud."
I softened my voice, but I didn't budge. "You already helped me enough. Let me handle it this time."
Yegor looked at me, then at Kiryan, then finally grabbed his jacket. "Call me when it's over. Two hours."
"I will."
The rooftop restaurant Kiryan had picked sat on the top floor of a Manhattan high-rise.
The car waited at a side entrance. Kiryan didn't touch me. He only held the door, then slid in on the other side.
That restraint made me more uneasy than force ever had. He used to hook an arm around my waist and tell me what to do. Now he left space—but his presence still crushed the air in the car.
The window reflected the bruise on his cheekbone.
"Does it hurt?"
The second it left my mouth, I regretted it.
His eyes caught mine through the reflection. "You're worried about me?"
"I am checking whether Yegor scrambled your brain."
"If it is scrambled, will you take responsibility?"
"I'll have Olga drive you to the hospital."
"She'd probably punch the other side first."
My mouth almost twitched. I crushed it down.
Kiryan saw it anyway. His gaze settled on my lips, hotter than a touch.
The window-side area on the top floor had been blocked off. One long table. Two place settings. The city lights spread out beneath us.
"I start the clock now." I set my phone on the table. "Two hours."
Kiryan sat across from me. "You can leave whenever you want."
"And pay the penalty?"
"I'll handle it."
"I don't need you to handle it."
A server brought menus. Kiryan waved off the wine list and ordered a few lighter dishes.
"Tonight is on me," he said suddenly. "And everything before this too. But I need this chance."
The air froze for a beat.
He rested his hands on the table, not crossing the space between us. Big knuckles, scraped and bloody. The tattoo at his wrist disappeared into his cuff.
"Isabella's baby isn't mine."
I tightened my grip on my water glass.
He'd said the timing didn't match her travel schedule. He'd said the agreement was forged, the audio cut.
Each explanation tore down a wall. But behind it wasn't an exit. It was just another ruin.
"So it is all her fault?"
"No."
His answer hit me off balance.
"She forged the papers. She told the lies.
" His voice dropped, heavy. "But I gave her room.
I didn't push her off me at the birthday party.
I saw you walk out and I didn't go after you.
I knew you were waiting for an explanation, and I still left you alone in the manor for days. She didn't do those things for me."
My fingers started to go numb.
Those were the words I'd wanted. Not excuses. Not orders. Just him seeing what he'd done. Now he saw it—just at the wrong time.
"Those days, I kept telling myself... if you came back and told me you chose me, I'd forgive you." My chest ached so hard I could barely breathe. "I made excuses for you. You and her had history. I should have understood. I shouldn't have made it hard for you."
His face drained, slowly, like the color got pulled out.
"I sharpened the blade you cut me with... then handed it right back to you."
"I don't deserve to ask you to forget."
"You don't even deserve to ask me to forgive you."
"I know."
"You don't." I set the glass down. "You think you can dig up the truth, shove Isabella out, buy my painting, say you are sorry, and rewrite the past. But the damage already happened. One sentence, one apology doesn't fix that."
"Then how do we fix it?"
"We don't."
My voice stayed steady.
Maybe giving up meant sitting across from the person you'd once loved and admitting he was too late.
"Give me a chance."
"I gave you too many chances."
"If you can forgive me, I'll do anything."
"Even if I make you get on your knees?"
"If that is what you want."
I looked at his straight-backed posture. This man had been raised on power. He didn't bow. Most people didn't even hold his gaze.
"Then get on your knees."
His chair scraped the floor.
Kiryan stood, walked around the table. His height blocked the light, and I tipped my head up on instinct. Then he dropped to one knee, expensive slacks meeting cold marble.
Kiryan actually knelt in front of me.
My breath stopped.
Staff in the distance snapped their eyes away.
"You are out of your mind."
"Probably."
His gaze leveled with mine. I didn't have to look up anymore. He couldn't trap me in shadow with his size and experience.
"Get up."
"You told me to kneel."
"I wanted you to admit you can't."
"Then you misjudged me again."
My heart slammed into my ribs.
"This doesn't erase the past. It doesn't make me trust you again."
"I know."
"Then why the hell do you still do it?"
"Because you asked," he said, voice rough. "Because I should have learned a long time ago—love isn't making you bow to me."
That line hit the softest part of me.
I turned my face away. "Get up."
He rose.
"Let me do something for you," he said, his voice gentler.
The server finally brought the food. Kiryan didn't push. He swapped out anything too heavy. He remembered I hated olives, drank water without ice, and folded a napkin over and over when I was tense.
Those details used to make me happy. Now they scared me. He chose the moment I decided to stop loving him to prove he had never stopped.
With fifteen minutes left, a photographer came over with an assistant. "We still need a commemorative photo for the foundation report."
"Cancel it," Kiryan and I said at the same time.
The photographer blinked.
Kiryan looked at me. "If you don't want it, we won't do it."
"The penalty clause included photos," the assistant murmured.
I closed my eyes. "Fine. Take it."
They guided us to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Exit sat beside the night skyline like a wound.
"Stand a little closer, please."
Kiryan didn't move. He waited on me.
I stepped in until my shoulder brushed his arm, heat bleeding through fabric.
"Mr. Morozov, place your hand on Ms. Rossi's waist."
His palm settled on my waist.
Even through my dress, I felt every finger. His thumb didn't slide lower, but it tortured me more than a caress.
My spine flared hot.
"Ms. Rossi, rest your hand on his chest."
I lifted my hand and pressed it to his suit. His heart hammered under my palm—faster than mine.
Gray eyes, close enough to drown in. The familiar cedar scent closed over me in an instant.
"Great. Now look at each other."
The flash went off.
His fingers tightened for a split second, then released. That restraint was more dangerous than possession.
"A little closer. Mr. Morozov, lean in. Ms. Rossi, lift your chin."
He bent down. I had to tip my face up. Our mouths hovered a breath apart, warm air brushing my cheek.
The photographer fired off several shots. "Perfect. That's it."
"Last one."
As the shutter clicked, his thumb brushed lightly over the fabric at my waist. Maybe it was nothing. My skin still felt branded.
"All done."
I stepped back. Cold air sliced between us, and the heat from a second ago died instantly.
Two hours were up.
"Time's up," I said.
"I'll take you back."
"No."
He watched me for a few seconds, then only nodded. "Okay."
"And... the two million. Thank you. For the kids." I picked up my clutch and headed for the elevator.
He didn't stop me.
The doors slid open. I stepped in and hit the button for the lobby.
Before they closed, I caught one last look at him standing there—tall, silent, bruise on his cheekbone, the fabric at his knee still creased from where he'd knelt.
"Elena."
I lifted my eyes.
"I won't force you again," he said. "But I won't give up, either."
The elevator doors sealed between us.
I leaned against the cold metal and dragged in a shaking breath.
My palm still remembered his heartbeat. My waist still held his warmth.
I told myself it was just my body. Old reflexes left behind by loving him too much.
I was done with him.
Then a heavy thud hit deep in my chest.
My hand went to my stomach without thinking.
And in that moment, I knew—
My heart was betraying me.