She never looks back. Never senses me trailing her like a shadow. Good. I trained my men to move unseen, and I'm better than all of them.
She reaches her father's house—her house now—and pauses at the gate. Her hand rests on the wrought iron for a long moment before she pushes it open and walks up the path.
I watch her unlock the door. Watch the lights flick on inside.
Then I pull out my phone and call the two men I've already stationed on her street.
"She's inside. Rotating shifts."
"Copy that, boss."
I end the call and sit in the dark, staring at the house where my wife is sleeping without me.
By the time I get home, dawn is breaking over the lake, and Luca is waiting in my office. Of course he is.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just studies me.
"She'll come back," he says finally.
"Maybe." I pour myself a drink even though it's six in the morning. "Maybe not."
His gaze drops to the stack of papers on my desk. The fucking divorce papers I was served.
I pick up the papers—every page, every clause, every cold legal sentence dissolving our marriage—and tear them in half. Then in half again. And again. Until they're confetti scattered across my desk.
Luca raises an eyebrow. “You know, tearing them up does nothing.”
I drain the glass and set it down harder than necessary. "I'm not signing those papers. She's my wife. That's not changing."
"Even if she doesn't come back?"
I lean back in my chair, jaw tight, and force myself to think about that possibility. Really think about it.
A life where Polina chooses to stay away. Where she builds something new in that house, finds her footing, maybe even—fuck, I can barely stand to think it—finds someone else.
The rage that follows nearly blinds me.
But beneath it is the truth I've been avoiding.
I love her.
"Then," I say slowly, each word costing me, "my wife will live an extremely well-guarded life somewhere else."
I love her enough to let her choose, even if she doesn't choose me.
Polina
"—and then he brought me a huge bouquet of roses," Mirella says, her eyes sparkling. “For no reason. Just because.”
The other women—Serafina, Anya, and Elena—nod knowingly. We’re all having lunch at Mirella’s. Agossip session, she called it. I perch on the edge of an overstuffed chair and try to feel like I belong here.
But all of them glow with the kind of happiness that comes from being cherished by their men.
"Bron made me a cake for my birthday,” Serafina adds, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It was lopsided and tasted like cardboard, but it was so sweet that he made it himself."
More laughter. My chest aches.
Elena leans forward, her eyes soft. "Lev keeps a list of things I mention wanting. Just casual things I say in passing. And then they show up—sometimes weeks later—like magic."
