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I spin around so fast my vision blurs. “It’s fucking not!” The words echoing through the penthouse.

“Elara.” He warns.

“I’m done playing games with you!” I fire back with the same intensity, tears burning hot behind my eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t do it again. I told you I’m trying to live for you and then you go and do this?”

By the end, I’m practically screaming, my voice splintering apart under the weight of everything lodged inside my chest.

I storm back towards him, closing the distance in furious steps.

“I’m sorry for hurting you.” I choke out, shoving at his chest again even though he barely moves. “But I am hurting too. How is this any different from you finding me in the pool of my blood?”

The kitchen goes painfully silent except for my ragged breathing.

“It’s different because this won’t kill me.”

“Why would you fucking hurt yourself?” I push again, a scream ripping out of my chest.

“Because I failed you.”

Silence.

“Because you chose death and I choose you.”

I didn’t think anyone would miss me enough for it to hurt like that, but as I look at Sergei, I realise that I was so wrong.

“Sergei, I choose you too.” I whisper now, the anger cracking open into something rawer. “I’m still here.” My throat tightens violently. “For you.”

“Elara.” His voice dipping lower as he cups my cheek but I pull away. “I close my eyes and I still see you bleeding.” His chest rises sharply.

My anger falters instantly, because he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds terrified.

“I know I haven’t given you any reason to believe otherwise, but this time, I’m staying. For good.” I wipe the tears away from my eyes.

His hand clenching at the sight.

“I’m not leaving you, Mishka.” I tell him and he nods, perhaps not believing me, but still complies. “I’m never leaving you again.”

He takes a step back and nods again.

“I don’t want either of us to keep bleeding for love anymore.” I try to reach him when he turns his back and leaves the penthouse.

FIFTY-ONE

Elara

“Alright!” The therapist says with a small smile, pen poised over her notebook. “What seems to be the problem?”

Sergei leans back into the couch, eyes drifting towards me instantly. “Elarism.”

The therapist blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s chronic.” He says gravely.

“That’s…not an actual condition.”

His mouth twitches, gaze still fixed on me. “It’s not a condition.” A pause. “It’s a feeling.”

My head falls between my shoulders as Dr. Isabella’s gaze flickers between us.