Chapter Eighteen - Dimitri
Tuesday morning, I push open the study door harder than I mean to, the heavy wood slamming against the wall. Annie jolts like she’s been struck.
She’s bent over my desk, fingers frozen above an open folder, eyes wide and guilty. She looks like prey caught in a trap, breath shallow, body half turned as if she’d been ready to run.
Silence stretches. The only sound is the slow thud of my boots as I cross the room. Each step is deliberate, steady, the way you walk toward something you already own. Her gaze flickers with every inch I close, but she doesn’t move, caught between fear and pride.
I take in everything. The flush staining her cheeks. The slight tremor in her hands. The way her hair falls forward, a curtain that can’t hide the guilt written across her face. She hadn’t heard me come in. That tells me enough.
She’s been searching where she has no right to.
I stop on the other side of the desk, my eyes falling to the folder. Names. Locations. Photographs. Enough to put holes in empires if left in the wrong hands. My jaw tightens.
Annie straightens clumsily, scrambling to gather composure. Her voice wavers, a flimsy cover. “I was only curious. I thought maybe it was something to do with the gallery, or I got turned around, and—”
“Curiosity,” I cut in softly. “That’s the excuse you bring me?”
My tone is calm. Too calm. Calmness that hides the kind of restraint more dangerous than rage. I watch the shiver that runs through her when she hears it.
Her mouth opens again, words tripping over themselves. “I didn’t see anything important. I don’t even know what it is.”
Lie.
Her body betrays her. Shoulders too tight, eyes darting from the folder to me, breath sharp and shallow. I’ve seen guilt in men seconds before they beg for mercy. I’ve seen fear in enemies who swore they’d never break. She wears both now. And worse—knowledge.
She’s seen enough to know this isn’t harmless.
My hand closes the folder with a single, decisive motion, the sound loud in the stillness. I lean across the desk, close enough that she can feel the weight of me pressing down even without a touch.
“What did you see?”
Her lips part, hesitation choking her voice. I don’t need her answer. I can see it in her eyes.
She’s seen too much, and now the choice of what to do with her is mine alone.
I step closer, each stride deliberate, until my shadow stretches long across the desk. Annie’s back straightens, but I see the tremor in her fingers where they clutch the edge of the wood. The air between us thickens, charged, almost suffocating.
“You crossed a line,” I say, my tone sharper than any blade. Each word lands heavy, designed to cut. “One you can’t come back from. Do you understand that? I gave you more trust than most outsiders would ever see. More freedom than anyone in your position deserves. This is what you do with it?”
Her lips part, her voice faltering at first before she forces it steady. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t even understand what I was looking at. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” She swallows hard, summoning whatever defiance she can muster. “I never meant any harm.”
Her eyes lock with mine, wide but determined, as though sheer stubbornness could protect her.
I study her. Every twitch of her features, the way her throat works, the fire she’s fighting to keep alive. For a heartbeat, I almost want to believe her. I want to think she’s reckless, not dangerous. Curious, not deceitful.
Then I see it—the flicker in her gaze, small but unmistakable. Knowledge.
She knows.
The fury hits me raw, searing, impossible to contain. My hand slams down on the desk with enough force to rattle the lamp and make her jump. The crack echoes through the study, reverberating off the walls.
“You think I’m a fool?” My voice rises, harsh and unrestrained now. “You looked. You saw. Don’t insult me by pretending ignorance.”
She flinches but doesn’t step back. That defiance that once intrigued me now burns like betrayal.
The doorframe darkens as two of my men appear, drawn by the raised voice. Their eyes flick from me to her, waiting.
Annie turns instinctively, panic flashing across her face as she realizes what’s coming. “Dimitri—”
I don’t give her the chance. My command is clipped, final, leaving no room for doubt. “Take her away. She’s finished here.”
Her breath catches. “No, please—listen to me!” She rushes around the desk, reaching for me, her hand desperate on my arm. “You have to believe me. I wasn’t trying to betray you, I was—”
“Enough.” My voice is cold steel, unyielding. I don’t waver, don’t soften.
The guards move forward. Her grip slips from my sleeve as they seize her by the arms. She struggles, twisting against them, her eyes locked on mine, wide and pleading.
“Dimitri! Please!” Her voice breaks, echoing through the hall as they drag her away, her words turning ragged with desperation. “I didn’t mean it—I swear—I didn’t—”
I don’t follow. I stand in the center of the study, jaw clenched, chest tight, listening as her protests fade into the distance.
Her absence leaves the room colder, and still I don’t let myself look at the folder again. I already know the truth. She saw too much.
The door slams somewhere deep in the house, followed by the scuffle of boots on marble. I don’t move. I hear her voice, thin at first, then sharper, fighting against the inevitable. My name breaks from her throat once, twice, torn raw, but I don’t answer. I don’t follow.
From the window, I see them dragging her across the courtyard, her small frame thrashing against hands twice the size of hers. The night swallows her cries, the cold air carrying them no further than the gates.
My fists clench at my sides, nails biting deep into my palms, the only sign of what it costs me to remain still.
Driving her out feels like tearing something out of my own chest, but discipline anchors me. I force myself to believe it’s necessary.
“This is mercy,” I tell myself. She should already be dead. Letting her live, letting her walk away—that is leniency no one else would have received. She should be grateful her blood doesn’t stain the stones outside my gates.
I repeat it again, slow and cold, until the words sound like truth. Except the hollow feeling inside me grows, gnawing at the edges of my certainty, whispering that I’ve made a mistake I can’t undo.
I don’t move from the study window, though my fists tighten at my sides until my knuckles crack.
She’s small down there, dragged across the courtyard by men who follow my orders without hesitation.
Annie struggles, shouts, calls my name once, then again, but I don’t answer. I force myself to remain still.
It feels like ripping out a piece of myself, leaving it to bleed on the gravel. I convince myself it’s necessary.
The guards push her through the gates. She stumbles, nearly falls, but stubbornness keeps her on her feet.
I see it even from up here—the same fire that made me notice her in the first place, the same fire that now burns me like betrayal.
One of the men shoves her forward. I hear his warning faintly through the night air: don’t come back.
Then the gate shuts, a heavy clang that echoes finality.
She stands on the other side, arms wrapped around herself, shivering in the cold. For a moment she doesn’t move. She just stares back at the estate, chest rising sharp with the ache of what’s been taken from her. Then she turns, disappearing into the dark.
I drag my gaze from the window back to the desk. The folder is still there, open where she left it, its photographs spread like accusations. My hand closes it with a snap, shoving it into the drawer with more force than necessary. The sound of wood slamming against wood echoes through the study.
I lean back against the desk, dragging in a breath that feels heavier than the room.
My mind replays it all—the look in her eyes when I caught her bent over my desk, the tremor in her hands, the lie on her lips.
The desperation when she reached for me, clutching at my sleeve like she believed I might actually listen.
For a moment, I almost wanted to. That’s what burns worst of all.
The rage has burned itself out. What remains is colder. Resignation. She crossed a line I can’t forgive. In my world, broken trust is rot; it spreads until it destroys everything. The only cure is fire.
I tell myself she was nothing more than a liability. A woman who should have been killed the night she saw blood on my hands. I spared her once. Twice. More than most would ever deserve. Tonight I gave her mercy. Mercy in the form of exile instead of execution. She should be grateful.
So why does it feel like I gutted myself instead of her?
I pour a drink, vodka splashing into crystal, the smell sharp, familiar. I throw it back in one swallow, let the burn scorch my throat, but it doesn’t ease the hollow twisting inside me. I pour another, slower this time, staring into the glass as though it holds an answer.
The study feels too empty without her. The silence presses in from every wall, heavier than the night.
The chair she used to sit in is vacant, the air missing the heat of her sharp tongue, her restless energy, her constant need to test the boundaries I set.
I used to find it irritating. Now the absence of it gnaws at me.
I tell myself I’ll forget her. That she’ll be nothing more than another mistake I corrected before it could destroy me. The ache in my chest will fade, and I’ll return to what I was before she stepped into my world. Cold. Untouchable. Unmoved.
I’m lying to myself.
When I close my eyes, I don’t see the folder or the photographs. I see her—eyes wide, mouth trembling, fingers clawing at my arm as though she could tether me to her with nothing more than a plea.
I slam the glass down on the desk, liquid sloshing over the rim. My chest tightens, breath catching hard. I whisper the only lie I can cling to.
“I don’t care.”
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
If I say it enough, maybe it will become true.
As dawn bleeds pale light through the curtains, the hollow inside me doesn’t shrink. It grows. I know the truth I’ll never speak aloud: Annie Vale is gone, but I am the one who feels abandoned.