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I could only hope she would be more receptive and find it within herself to understand why I did it in the first place.
And yet, there was no ignoring that looming reality my apprehension stemmed from. I turned my back on Anastasia because I didn’t want to endanger her with my work. And yet, by forcing her back into my life, I’d be bringing her into the middle of a feud rather than safeguarding her.
It was the unfortunate reality of the situation, but in my mind, I’d rather have her nearby and under my protection than not have her at all.
At the very least, marrying her could offer us both immunity from either side.
If the Levovs upheld their morals, they wouldn’t kill me out of respect for the marriage and to keep their sister happy. But of course, for that to happen, I had to get back on Anastasia’s good side. It would only take one word from her for them to take me out with no remorse if given the chance. She wasn’t entirely wrong about her claim, earlier.
If I managed to make that right again, then Erasmo wouldn’t be able to use my wife as a bargaining chip. She would be mine, and while I offered her to him as a token of good faith, that wouldn’t last long.
It was a lot to consider, and everything was riding on Anastasia not hating my guts. That seemed nearly impossible at that moment.
Despite it all, I had to remind myself that she would eventually understand why I did what I did. She would see that I did it for us, even if it didn’t make sense to her at that moment. At least, I hoped she would.
When another notable crash came from upstairs, I let go of a deep breath and tried to temper the rising frustration in my chest.
I wish I never met you.
Those lingering words certainly stung, even then.
I had been operating off my anger and desire to be with her since I learned of her true identity, but that would only get me so far. I wasn’t deluded enough to think I wasn’t being selfish, and if I wanted things to be better with Anastasia, then I needed to keep her in mind whenever I made decisions that would affect us both.
Sitting there in silence while Anastasia raged in the spare bedroom made it hard to believe we had been in a good place once. We were complete strangers, connecting over a few drinks at a hotel bar. Never in my life had I ever had such a genuine conversation with anyone, and it didn’t hurt that I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Anastasia was well-versed in the world around her and the finer things in life, yet she somehow seemed level-headed. She wasn’t a pushover, and while that was still true, it seemed like I had a different version of her in my house.
Of course, I couldn’t entirely blame her for that. I had the feeling I would be doing the same if I found myself in a similar position. Her resistance wasn’t exactly helping me at all, but with it out of her system, I wanted the chance to have a more civilized conversation.
Eventually, my glass was empty, and the spare bedroom went quiet for the first time in an hour. At the realization, I lifted my head and waited. Again, no more noise.
While it came as a relief, it put a different kind of pressure on me. That meant it was time, and I couldn’t put it off any longer.
Forcing myself to my feet, I made my way up the stairs, gifted the slightest bit of courage thanks to the booze.
By then, I was exhausted, and I could only hope Anastasia was, too.
Urging myself to stay calm, I unlocked the door and slowly pushed it open.
To nobody’s surprise, the room was a mess. The curtains were torn from the rod and hanging limp by the window, every piece of decor was either broken or tossed carelessly on the floor, and the bed was unmade, mattresses not even on the bed frame anymore.
It was a complete mess, and accurate to how destructive her time in the bedroom sounded from downstairs.
The sight should’ve broken me. It should’ve had me howling with anger, furious for what she did to the room I offered her. But there she was, sitting in the tangle of sheets and pillows, looking shattered.
Her eye makeup had smeared down her cheeks, muddied from crying. Her bloodshot stare was distant and tortured, and she looked as helpless as an animal trapped in a zoo enclosure.
It didn’t have to be this way. Things could’ve been so different, and I couldn’t forget that.
At that moment, the unshakeable guilt swathed me just from looking at her, and it put into question every move I made since returning from Europe.
I wanted to protect her, but from what I could see, I was ruining her.
That wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
But the second she looked at me, realizing I was there, that despair froze over, and her face hardened completely. Despite the distance between us, there was no mistaking how she shook.
But it wasn’t from being cold or afraid. It came from her unwavering anger.
