43. Michael
Michael
I couldn’t do it anymore.
The drugs, the lies, the fake affection—I was done. I couldn’t keep pretending to love Krystal. Couldn’t keep playing house with a woman I could barely stand to look at, let alone touch. Every second I spent in her presence chipped away at my control, at my fucking sanity.
So I lied—again. A big, bold, Vegas-sized lie.
I told her uncle that the strip wasn’t good for her. That the late nights and the party favors weren’t good for the “baby.” That she needed fresh air and quiet, something more fitting for a woman about to become a mother.
He bought it.
Of course he did. Even he knew Krystal was a powder keg of bad decisions.
So I moved her. Took her out of the lights and into the dark. To a gated mountain property where the walls had my ears and cameras. Where my most trusted Russian guarded her by day, and steel deadbolts locked her in at night.
She raged. Screamed. Scratched me across the face the first time I told her she wasn’t leaving.
“You’re mine, Michael! You married me!”
I snapped.
I shoved the truth down her throat like poison.
“You think we’re married? You think we’re something real?
We never even consummated it, Krystal. You were so high, you fucked an AI robot, not me.
Brett sprayed it with my cologne and left you in the dark.
And you called that the best night of your life. ”
Her face twisted in slow, dawning horror.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” I snarled. “A pathetic, desperate idiot who wanted the crown but didn’t earn the kingdom. You chased power, not love. You wanted to be queen, but I was never your king.”
She gasped, shaking, and I leaned in closer, voice pure venom.
“This is what happens when you take what isn’t yours. When you chase men who don’t want you. I told you it was over. I told you she was in and you were out.”
Her tears meant nothing to me.
“You get nothing now. No empire. No husband. No heir. Just a padded cell in a designer prison until this whole damn charade ends.”
I slammed the door on her screams. Locked it. Walked away.
Because I had a war to win.
And a wife to get back to.
Krystal’s perfume still lingered in the damn suite, even though I’d locked her away in that chalet up in the mountains like a cursed princess in a story no one wanted to read a week ago.
I stared at her phone, still warm from the voicemail I’d forced her to send while having a gun pointed at her head. . “All’s well. I’m nesting. Michael’s taking great care of me.” Her voice was syrupy sweet, all fake sunshine and breathy coos. She hated every second of it. Good.
It should’ve been Kate here. My real wife. My real partner. The only woman who’s ever made my heart pound like war drums and my soul ache with hunger.
But she was gone. Hidden. Brett said she was safe, that she was holding on. Barely. I wanted to believe that.
I scrolled through Krystal’s phone again. Uncle Roman and Redmond were satisfied—for now. But the cracks were showing. Redmond wanted proof. "Pregnancy photos, sonograms, doctor’s notes." I told him we were keeping things private. But I knew that wouldn't last.
So I did what I had to. Found a girl at the club—young, dumb, and conveniently two months pregnant. Slipped her five grand for a picture of the test and another five for her silence.
“Your fake wife’s glowing,” Brett had joked when I showed him the photo. I didn’t laugh. I was already burning on the inside.
Every fucking move I made was a performance. And I was tired of the stage.
I stepped out onto the balcony, overlooking the strip, letting the noise fade behind the double-glass doors. I looked east. Always east. Toward the coast. Toward her.
The moment the gate sensors flickered, I knew something was wrong.
I killed the headlights, rolled in slow, and there he was?—
Kaim—standing in my drive like a nightmare I didn't order.
His face was twisted with rage, his hand already on the butt of a gun tucked in his waistband.
“Where is she?” he shouted before I even stepped out of the car. “Where the fuck is my sister?!”
“I told you—” I started.
But he wasn’t listening. He barreled past me so fast my shoulder clipped the doorframe as I tried to block him.
And then the screaming started.
“KAIM!”
Krystal’s voice split the night in two.
Wild. Frantic. Full of a fear she never showed me.
She was on the stairs, hair tangled, robe slipping off one shoulder, mascara tracks like bruises. She looked half-feral, haunted by days of detox and truth she didn’t want.
“She’s here,” Kaim growled, charging inside. “Locked up like an animal.”
“Get out,” I snapped, grabbing his arm. “Not your business.”
He jerked free.
“You made it my business when you took her.”
Then Krystel snapped.
“He LIED!” she screamed. “IT’S ALL LIES!”
Kaim froze.
“What?”
“He drugged me!” she cried. “Made me sleep with a robot, Kaim—a fucking robot! You wanted me married to a king? HE KEPT ME PRISONER!”
I exhaled hard. “Krystel—stop.”
But she broke.
“He NEVER touched me. NEVER wanted me. It was ALL FAKE!”
Kaim lunged.
We hit the floor hard, the air exploding out of my lungs as his fist cracked against my jaw. We rolled across the rug, smashing into the coffee table, glass shattering around us.
His gun slipped from his waistband, skidding across the floor with a sharp metallic sound.
Bad.
Very bad.
He swung again—I blocked, slammed him into the floor. He roared, blood flying from his split lip.
“YOU SON OF A?—”
We grappled, fists pounding, grunts echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
Krystal sobbed into her hands—then dropped to her knees and crawled toward the fallen gun.
“No—Krystal—” I barked.
But she was faster.
Her fingers closed around it.
She lifted it with trembling hands.
“GET OFF HIM!” she screamed.
I shoved Kaim sideways, pinning him long enough to disarm the situation?—
But it was too late.
BANG.
The shot was deafening.
Kaim jerked, breath catching in his throat as blood bloomed across his chest. His eyes flicked from me… to Krystal… confusion drowning the light in them.
He collapsed.
Krystal stared at the gun in her hands, shaking violently.
“No. No, no, no, no—Kaim—Kaim—please?—”
She scrambled toward him, sobbing hysterically, her wails echoing like a wounded animal.
I stood slowly. My hands were shaking too—not from fear, but from the knowledge that this would change everything.
This was the crack in the council’s armor I needed.
I grabbed my phone.
Dialed Roman.
He picked up on the second ring.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Kaim came here unhinged,” I said, voice steady, controlled. “He forced his way in. He attacked me. Krystal grabbed his gun during the struggle and… she shot him. It was self-defense. She’s inconsolable.”
A beat of silence.
Then Roman exhaled. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The line went dead.
Behind me, Krystal’s sobs filled the house.
I slid the phone into my pocket, jaw tight.
The pieces were falling into place.
Messy, bloody pieces—but workable.
Footsteps crunched outside.
Engines.
Doors slamming.
Roman’s cleanup crew.
Game on.
Roman’s cleanup crew stormed the mountain house like a black-ops unit, boots hitting hardwood, gear clattering, canvassing the scene with dead-eyed efficiency. They avoided Krystal completely—smart men avoid unstable women with guns.
Krystal was crumpled on the floor beside Kaim’s body, rocking, sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe. She clung to his shirt like she thought she could force life back into him by sheer hysteria.
“KAIM! KAIM—PLEASE! PLEASE—WAKE UP?—”
She wasn’t hearing anything. Not her own screams. Not the men hauling her brother away in a body bag. Not the world shattering around her.
She was gone.
Unreachable.
Broken.
Roman arrived last, stepping in with the stale smell of cigar smoke and old power. He surveyed the scene once, jaw tightening, then strode toward Krystal with the calm of a man entering a church.
He grabbed her under the arms and ripped her off the floor like she weighed nothing.
She thrashed. Screamed. Beat at his chest.
Roman slapped her.
Hard.
The crack echoed off the high ceilings.
She froze, eyes glassy and empty.
Roman leaned in, voice low and venomous.
“Now you listen to me, girl.”
Her breath hiccuped. She stared like he’d ripped the world out from under her.
“You killed your brother,” Roman hissed, shaking her once, sharply. “Not Michael. Not anyone else. YOU.”
Krystal whimpered, chest collapsing.
“You did this,” he snarled. “And unless you want your uncle to bury you next to him, you’re going to shut your mouth and follow my orders.”
He shoved her into a small sitting room, slammed the door behind them, and I followed. His men stationed outside like sentinels.
Roman grabbed her jaw, fingers digging in until she squealed.
“You knew he didn’t want you,” Roman spat. “You knew from day damn one that Michael wasn’t your future. But you wanted power. You wanted a crown that was never meant to sit on your head.”
Krystal cried harder, shaking uncontrollably.
Roman slapped her again—not as hard, but enough to jolt her mind back online.
“Get it through your skull,” he hissed. “Michael never wanted to fuck you. Never wanted to marry you. But you made him do it. Your brother’s dead because you were too stupid to accept your place.”
I never lost my composure. I just stood there, blood drying on his knuckles, jaw clenched, silent. Watching her unravel. Mostly still impressed that Roman was still loyal to me. Because I had wondered.
Roman grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her violently.
“You want freedom? You want out of this nightmare?” He leaned in close, lips curling. “Then you’re going to play by my rules now. Are we clear?”
Krystal blinked at him, mascara streaking, nose bleeding, mouth trembling.
“Y—yes,” she whispered.
Roman shook her again. Harder.
“ARE WE CLEAR, BITCH?”
“Yes!” she cried. “YES—WE’RE CLEAR!”
He released her, letting her collapse to the floor in a shuddering heap.
Roman straightened his coat. Looked down at her like she was nothing.
“You’re only valuable to the council for one thing now.”