17. The Cracks Show
The Cracks Show
Monika
Aleksander returned at dawn.
I heard the car in the driveway—the soft crunch of gravel, the purr of the engine dying, the slam of a door.
I lay in my bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, my body still aching from the night before.
My room was dark, the fire cold, the candles burned down to pools of wax that had hardened on the nightstand.
I should have gotten up. I should have showered, dressed, made myself presentable. But my body wouldn't move. My limbs were heavy, weighted down by exhaustion and shame and the hollow ache of having been taken apart by two men in two nights.
The footsteps in the hallway were familiar. Measured. Deliberate. Aleksander's footsteps. He paused outside my door—just for a moment—and I held my breath, waiting for him to knock.
He didn't knock.
He walked away.
Breakfast was a performance.
I sat at the long table in the dining room, the same table where I'd had my first dinner with this family. The candles were lit, the silver polished, the flowers fresh in their crystal vases. But the air was different. Charged. The way it feels before a storm.
Aleksander sat at the head of the table, as always. He looked tired—there were shadows under his eyes, new lines around his mouth. But his eyes were sharp, watching everything, missing nothing.
Nathan sat to his right. He was smiling—that sharp, predatory smile that made my stomach twist. He didn't look tired. He looked satisfied. Like a cat that had eaten the canary and was waiting for someone to notice.
Gabriel sat across from me. He looked nervous, his eyes darting between his father and his brother, his hands fidgeting with his napkin. He'd noticed something was wrong. He just didn't know what.
And I sat in my usual place, at Aleksander's left hand, picking at my eggs and trying not to meet anyone's eyes.
"Good trip?" Nathan asked, his voice light. Almost cheerful.
"Productive," Aleksander said.
"Everything resolved?"
"Everything."
Nathan smiled. It was a terrible smile—the kind that made me want to hide under the table. "Good. We wouldn't want any loose ends."
Aleksander's eyes flicked to him. There was something in them I'd never seen before—something cold and assessing. "No," he said. "We wouldn't."
The silence stretched. I could feel the tension coiling around us, thick as smoke. Gabriel cleared his throat.
"Monika, I was thinking—" He started, his voice hesitant. "Maybe we could—"
"Not now," Aleksander said.
Gabriel's mouth snapped shut. He looked at me, confused, hurt, and I couldn't meet his eyes.
I couldn't meet anyone's eyes.
The headboard was discovered that afternoon.
I don't know who found it—a maid, probably, or one of the servants. But word spread quickly through the house, the way secrets always do in a place like this. By the time I came down from my room, everyone knew.
Everyone except Aleksander.
He was in his study when I found him, standing at the window, his back to the door. The fire was lit, burning high and bright, and the room smelled like cedar and smoke and something else—something that might have been anger.
"Monika." He didn't turn around. "Close the door."
I closed the door.
"The headboard in your room," he said. "It's broken."
"I know."
"Broken," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "Cracked down the middle. Splintered. Like someone had been—" He stopped. Turned. His grey eyes found mine, and I saw what was in them.
Not anger. Not yet.
Something worse.
"I was away for one night," he said. "One night. And in that time, something happened in your room that broke furniture."
I opened my mouth to speak. Closed it. There was nothing I could say that would make this better.
"Was it Gabriel?" Aleksander asked. His voice was soft. Too soft.
"No."
"Was it someone else? One of the staff? A guard?"
"No."
"Then who?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The silence was deafening, filling the space between us like water.
"Monika." He walked toward me. His movements were slow, deliberate, the way a predator moves when it's cornering its prey. "Look at me."
I looked at him.
"Who was it?"
The name was lodged in my throat, a stone I couldn't swallow. I thought about the consequences—what would happen to Nathan, to me, to all of us. I thought about the way Gabriel would look when he found out. I thought about the cracks spreading through this family, through this house, through me.
"Nathan," I whispered.
The word hung in the air between us. I watched Aleksander's face change—the flicker of something dark crossing his features, the tightening of his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.
"I see," he said.
He turned away. Walked to the window. Stood with his back to me, his shoulders rigid, his head bowed.
"Did he force you?" he asked. "Did he hurt you?"
"No."
"Did you want it?"
I opened my mouth to say no. To say yes. To say something that would make this easier.
But I couldn't lie to him.
"I don't know," I said.
He was quiet for a long time. The fire crackled. The clock ticked. Somewhere in the house, someone laughed—a bright, carefree sound that felt obscene in the silence of the study.
"Go to your room," he said. "I'll handle Nathan."
"No." The word came out before I could stop it. "I don't want you to handle him."
"Monika—"
"I don't want you to fight him. I don't want you to punish him. I don't want any of this to be about him." I stepped closer, my hand reaching out, touching his arm. He flinched—a small, involuntary movement—but he didn't pull away. "I chose to be with him. Just like I chose to be with you."
"Did you?"
The question hit me like a slap. I stared at him, my mouth open, and I realized that he knew. He'd known all along.
"You signed the papers," he said. "You took my name. You came to my bed. And then you went to my son's."
"I didn't—"
"You didn't what? You didn't mean for it to happen?
You didn't think I'd find out?" He turned to face me, and the anger I'd been expecting was there—finally, unmistakably, blazing in his grey eyes.
"I can see the marks on your body, Monika.
The bruises. The bites. I've marked you myself, and I know my work. Those marks aren't mine."
I looked down at myself. The collar of my dress was low, and there were bruises on my collarbone—fingermarks, dark and unmistakable. I'd been so careful to hide them, but I'd missed one.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Aleksander, I'm sorry."
"Sorry." He laughed—a broken sound, nothing like his usual laugh. "You're sorry. That's what you have to say to me?"
"I didn't know what to do. You were gone, and he was there, and I—" I stopped. There were no words for this. No explanation that would make it right.
"You wanted him," Aleksander said. "That's what happened. You wanted him, and you didn't want to wait for me."
"No. Yes. I don't know." I pressed my hands to my face, trying to hold myself together. "I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know who I am. I'm just—I'm trying to survive, Aleksander. That's all I've ever been trying to do."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and pulled my hands away from my face, holding them in his.
"Survive," he said. "Is that what you think you're doing?"
"Nothing else makes sense."
He kissed my forehead. It was a strange gesture—almost paternal, almost tender—and I felt tears prick at my eyes.
"I love you, Monika." The words were soft, barely audible. "I know I shouldn't. I know I'm too old, too broken, too dangerous. But I love you."
"Aleksander..."
"Don't say it back." He pulled away, stepping out of my reach. "Not unless you mean it. Not unless you're sure."
He walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the handle.
"Stay in your room tonight. I'll have dinner sent up."
"Aleksander—"
"Don't," he said. "Please. Just don't."
He left. The door closed behind him, and I was alone in the study, surrounded by the ghosts of all the things we'd said and all the things we hadn't.
He came to my room that night.
I heard him in the hallway—the soft footsteps, the pause outside my door, the click of the lock turning. I lay in my bed, the sheets pulled up to my chin, the dark pressing in around me.
The door opened. He walked in, his figure silhouetted against the light from the hallway. He closed the door behind him and stood there, waiting.
"Turn on the light," I said.
"No."
"Please."
He turned on the bedside lamp. The light was soft, golden, casting shadows across his face. He looked older than he had this morning—tired, worn, the lines around his eyes deeper than I remembered.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not going to punish you. That's not why I'm here."
"Then why are you here?"
He walked to the bed. Sat on the edge. Reached out and touched my face, his fingers tracing the curve of my cheek.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you," he said. "Because I've spent my whole life building walls, and you walked right through them. Because you're the only thing in this world that makes me feel human."
"Aleksander..."
He kissed me. Not tender, not gentle. The kiss was fierce, desperate, full of everything he couldn't say. I kissed him back, my hands tangled in his hair, his body pressed against mine.
He pushed me down onto the bed, his weight settling over me. His hands were rough, tearing at my nightgown, pushing it up over my thighs. He didn't ask permission. He didn't wait.
"Tell me you want this," he said.
"I want this."
"Tell me you want me."
"I want you."
He entered me in one smooth stroke. I gasped, arching against him, my nails digging into his shoulders. He didn't pause. Didn't slow down. He fucked me hard, fast, punishing.
"Look at me," he said. "Look at me, Monika."
I looked at him. His eyes were dark, wild, full of something I'd never seen before. Pain, maybe. Or desperation.
"I want to be the only one," he said. "The only one who touches you. The only one who sees you. The only one who has you."
"Aleksander—"
"I can't share you. I can't." He thrust deeper, harder, and I saw stars. "You're mine, Monika. You're mine."
I didn't argue. I couldn't. I was too far gone, too caught up in the rhythm of his body against mine, the overwhelming sensation of being claimed.
He didn't stop until I came. Then he came, his face buried in my neck, his body shuddering against mine.
When it was over, he pulled out and lay beside me. The room was silent, the lamp still on, the shadows still dancing on the walls.
"You're mine," he said again. This time, it wasn't a demand. It was a plea.
"I know," I said.
I didn't know if it was true.
I didn't know anything anymore.
The next morning, the house was quiet.
Nathan was absent from breakfast. Gabriel was silent, his eyes fixed on his plate, his hands shaking slightly. Aleksander sat at the head of the table, his face a mask of stone, his eyes never leaving me.
I ate my eggs and pretended everything was normal.
But nothing was normal.
The cracks were showing. And I knew, with a certainty that sat in my bones like a cold weight, that they would only grow wider.