Evelyn came back late. Later than usual. And she refused to eat dinner.
Didn't even touch the plate left out for her.
Dmitri sent me a new clip of Mikhail's car, sliding into the basement parking of her office building.
My gut twisted.
I paced the living room once. Twice.
Then I went to her door and knocked.
No answer.
I waited.
Knocked again, harder this time.
Finally, the lock clicked.
The door creaked open slowly, The room was dark, completely unlit.
I reached inside and flicked the lights on.
And then I saw it.
A red, sharp mark across her cheek.
Her skin was pale, but the outline was unmistakable.
My entire body went still.
My voice came out lower than I expected. "Who did this?"
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
I already knew.
Mikhail.
"Why didn't you say anything to me?" I asked.
She flinched slightly but said nothing.
"Were you planning to hide it? Let him keep doing this? Keep getting bullied by him like this?"
Still nothing.
Her silence scraped against something raw in me.
"Say something," I snapped, louder this time. "Damn it, Evelyn, say something."
I didn't even realize I'd raised my voice.
I was angry at Mikhail, and I'd let it out on her. The one person who had every right to stay silent.
But then she looked at me.
"Does it even matter what happens to me? What my stepfather does to me? It's not like I'm your responsibility."
That stopped me.
"You're no better than him , you just don't raise your hand at me. But you hurt me just as much. With your silence. With your so-called nonchalant attitude."
I felt something inside me twist.
"I live in your penthouse, not in your home. I eat at your table but never with you. I walk beside you and still feel completely alone."
She didn't cry. She didn't break down.
But every word struck harder than any slap ever could.
"He called me a mistress, and honestly? Even a mistress would've been treated better. At least she'd be acknowledged."
I opened my mouth, but she didn't let me speak.
"You showed the entire world how much you detest me. That day when you refused to kiss me in front of the guests like I was some disease you didn't want to catch."
My fists clenched.
"And then " Her voice cracked. "Then you did kiss me. And for a second, I thought maybe. Maybe things were changing. Maybe you were starting to see me."
"But then you said it was the heat of the moment."
"You're no better than him!" she shouted, her voice shaking now. "At least with him, I know when to flinch. But with you? I keep hoping. And that's what hurts more."
"I regret that my first kiss," she whispered, almost like it physically hurt to say it, "was with a man who doesn't even like to share a meal with me."
"What a waste."
Her words didn't leave me.
They echoed. Sharp and unforgiving, bouncing inside my head like bullets I couldn't dodge.
"What a waste."
My jaw clenched, my fists curling at my sides.
"Oh, I see now," I said, my voice sharp "You must have a lot of free time. That's why you're overthinking every damn thing."
She froze.
"Turning a single kiss into some tragic love story? Calling it a waste?" I laughed bitterly. "Maybe if you focused less on your imaginary heartbreak and more on reality, you wouldn't be spiralling every time someone breathes the wrong way around you."
I regretted the words even as they left my mouth.
But I didn't stop.
I watched her shoulders rising like she was holding in every scream.
Part of me wanted her to turn around and yell. To fight back. To give me another reason to stay angry ,because anger was easier than guilt. Easier than facing what I'd really done to her.
She kept walking away, and I couldn't stop myself.
"Where was this attitude when Mikhail slapped you?" I barked like a mad dog "You can only argue with me, the one who's actually protecting you?"
She froze again, mid-step.
But I wasn't done. My voice was rising, cruel and reckless.
"Why didn't you fight him the way you're fighting me now?
I stepped closer.
"You're acting like getting slapped by Mikhail is just normal."
As soon as I said it, I regretted it.
She turned around slowly, her eyes wide but not with shock.
With something worse.
Resignation.
"Yes," she said softly. "Because it is normal."
"I grew up like that, Alexander. Being hit. Being told to stay quiet. I learned early on how to stay still and survive."
I couldn't breathe.
"And that's exactly why a trivial kiss to you meant so much to me."
Her eyes glistened now, but she didn't cry.
"I don't care what you do to Mikhail," she said, "Destroy him. Kill him. I don't care."
She stepped back, like she was physically putting distance between us.
"But when all of this mess is over, I want you to divorce me."
My chest tightened.
"I don't want to spend the rest of my youth being the pawn of some stupid power game between broken men."
"Damn it, Evelyn!" I shouted her name like a curse, like it might pull her back.
But she didn't stop.
She didn't turn.
She walked away with her heart probably shattered because of me.
I stood there fists clenched, chest heaving.
I came to comfort her.
I came to make sure she was okay.
And yet somehow, I ended up cutting her even deeper.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Why is it that no matter what I do, I can never give her what she needs?
But I always ruin it. She looked at me tonight like I was no better than the man who hit her. And maybe she was right.
Because I did hurt her.
Not with my hands. But with my words.
I leaned against the wall, dragging a hand through my hair.
Her voice still echoed in my head
"I want you to divorce me."
And for the first time, I was afraid she actually meant it.
And that's how she left me standing in the ruins I created.
Evelyn
I walked away from my room.
But I didn't know where I was going.
I wanted go far away from him. From the walls that heard too much.
I kept walking. Down the hall, down the elevator, out the front doors of the building, out into the world that never seemed to hold a place for me.
Where does someone like me go to feel safe? To rest peacefully? I didn't have an answer.
No house had ever felt like a home. Not my childhood one, not the cold marble floors of Alexander's penthouse, not even the temporary escape of hotel rooms.
I had always been living in borrowed spaces. In borrowed lives.
Eventually, my legs led me to the garden. It was quiet. I sat down on one of the wooden chairs tucked beneath an old tree. The air smelled like rain and distant jasmine.
I leaned back and stared at the night sky ,blank and starless.
And I started thinking.
About how every chapter in it had been dictated by someone else. Mikhail, my mother's poor choices, Alexander's cold decisions. Even my marriage wasn't mine.
Was I ever going to live for me?
Was I ever going to feel loved not because I was useful, or convenient, or quiet enough to tolerate but because I deserved it?
The wind brushed past me again.
And I sat there, still and silent, trying to remember when the last time was that I felt safe enough to dream.