“I—” The word stalls. Not because it isn’t true — I do care about Larry, I genuinely care about him, he is an honorable man who was good to me — but becauseloveis a precise word and I have spent months not examining how precise it is. “That’s not fair.”
“Tell me you were happy.”
“I was—” Another stall. I push past it. “I was building something. Something important. Something I can trust." His eyes narrow at that description, but I'm not done. "He’s a wonderful man, Maxim. He’s steady and kind and he never once—” I stop.
“He never once what?”
I close my mouth.
His eyes level on me. Slow. Certain. “He never once made you feel the way you felt in that hotel suite.” Not a question. “He never once inspired you to follow him through a hotel corridor because your body couldn't resist.” He steps closer — just one step, no hands, just him reducing the distance. “You built a relationship with a man who never reached inside you and found the part you hide. Didn’t you.”
“Stop it.”
“You chose him because he was safe.”
“I chose him because he was kind.Too kind for me to betray him now."
“And because kind is manageable.” His voice is level. Almost gentle, which is worse than cruel. “Because kind doesn’t ask you to want things that scare you. Because kind never threatens the walls you built after I sent you home.”
The accuracy of it shuts my throat. “You don’t know me.” My voice cracks on the last word.I hate that it does. “You spent two days with me a year ago, and you think—”
“I know you’ve been at that window every night for a year.” He says it quietly. Watching my face. “Checking the street for something that isn’t Larry’s sensible car.”
The silence between us is enormous before it explodes. “That’s—” Fury floods my chest. Hot and clarifying, and a relief after the accuracy of everything else. “That’ssurveillance.That’s you watching me without my knowledge or consent, and that is not the same as knowing me—“
“You’re right.” He doesn’t move. “It’s not. But tell me I’m wrong about the window.”
I can’t.
He takes the small step he’s been holding. Close enough now that his warmth reaches me, close enough that my body is already making its case over my brain’s objections. “I’m not asking you to betray Larry.” His voice drops. “He’s not who you’re betraying.”
“Then who—”
“Yourself.” He says it simply. Like he’s been waiting for the right moment to say it. “Every morning you got up and hit all the boxes on your checklist and called it happiness. But every night you stood at that window. Watching. Waiting. Not daring to hope. You know who you’ve been betraying for a year. It’s not him.”
My eyes are burning. I will not cry in front of this man. I absolutely will not. “You don’t have the right to say that to me.” My voice shakes. “You gave that up. Yougavethat up when you put me in a car and told me to go back to my good life. So, you don’t get to come back a year later and tell me that my life is a lie—"
“I didn’t say it was a lie.” He reaches up and his thumb traces once — just once — along my jaw. Soft. The way he sometimes touched me at the hotel, times I let myself believe... “I said you deserve more than safe.”
I step back. Away from his hand and its devastation.
“Don’t touch me like that.” My voice comes out raw. “Like you care and then stand there with nothing to say for yourself. You don’t get to — you can’t just—” My hands are shaking. I press them to my thighs. “I rebuilt my life. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t what I wanted in the deepest part of my soul. And yes, you’re right, I stood at that window and wished—, but I built it. I chose it. Then you walked in and threw me over your shoulder and brought me here, and you still won’t tell mewhy—“
“Because I can’t.” The words come out rough, like the grit of hot sand at the beach. It's the first rough thing he’s said since the kiss. “Not yet. Not the way you need me to.”
“Then we have nothing to—” His hands settle at my waist. Not harsh. Not claiming. Just his hands on my waist and his forehead dropping to mine, close enough that his breath touches my face, and my foolish hands betray me. My hands, which were about to push him away, grip his forearms instead.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he says. Quiet. Certain. Giving me the chance. “Say it and mean it and I’ll call Daniil right now.”
The lie is right there. It’s easy. I don’t say it. Can't. Because he's what I've been looking for like a damn fool.
“Thereit is,“ he says. Not triumphant. Almost — tired. Like he’s been waiting for this admission longer than I have. "That’s what you’ve been betraying.“
“I hate you.” The words tear out of me. True and furious and not enough. “I have hated you every single day for a year.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “No,” he says—the first real fissure in his control is small and immediately sealed. “You’vewantedto hate me.“ His thumb moves along my jaw. "There’s a difference, Laura. You know there’s a difference."
The distinction is like a key turning. He’s right. God help me, he’s right. I wanted to hate him because hate would have been clean. Hate equaled closure. Larry's steadiness was another exit. An off-ramp from a highway of pain. “I know,” I say. My voice is barely anything.
