I couldn't sit still. Her words were cutting deeper with each passing second.
But what tipped me over wasn't just guilt.
It was the red mark on her cheek.
I pulled out my phone and called Dmitri.
"Bring Mikhail Martinez. Now."
"No delays, no mercy."
Then I left.
The warehouse smelled of rust and dust old concrete and older sins. It was my grandfather's place. A forgotten relic of when our family's justice didn't come through courtrooms, but through shadows and silence.
I never thought I'd use it.
But tonight, it felt like the only place fit for the kind of reckoning I had in mind.
When I walked in, Mikhail was already tied to the chair, ropes tight around his arms, ankles bound. He was struggling, grunting in protest.
He looked ridiculous.
Weak.
Pathetic.
He went still the moment he saw me.
I stepped forward, calm, composed but inside me, a storm was tearing through bone and blood.
"I should kill you," I said coldly. "For laying a hand on her."
He scoffed. "Her? You mean the little girl you've kept locked in your penthouse? The one you won't even take to your real home?"
My jaw tightened.
"She's not your stepdaughter anymore," I said, stepping closer, "She's my wife. Not a mistress. Not a placeholder. Wife. And the fact that you touched her means you've signed your own death sentence."
He laughed,
"And yet," he taunted, "you treat her worse than I ever did. Your words don't match your actions, Asimov."
My hand moved before I could think.
Crack.
I slapped him. Hard. His head snapped to the side. Then I did it again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth time, blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He groaned, dazed, his eyes rolling for a second before he focused again.
I crouched down to his level.
"Which hand?" I asked quietly. "Which hand did you raise on her?"
He didn't answer. So I stood and broke both of them.
The snap of bone echoed like thunder in the silent warehouse.
He screamed.
But I didn't flinch.
I leaned closer, my voice calm again. "Touch her again speak her name again and I won't stop at your hands."
I looked over my shoulder.
"Clean up the mess Dmitri," I said coldly, already walking away.
I walked out into the night, blood on my sleeves, fire in my veins.
And still, her voice haunted me.
What a waste.
By the time I walked out of that cursed warehouse, the sky was already turning pale.
Dawn.
But there was nothing calm about it. I drove straight back to the penthouse. My hands were still stained with the violence I had inflicted on someone who deserved every bit of it but it didn't wash away the damage I'd done to her.
And now… Now I couldn't bring myself to go inside.
The car idled in front of the building.
And I sat there like a coward.
For two hours.
After two whole hours of silence, staring up at the windows I knew she was behind. Or hoped she was behind.
I told myself I'd go up there, that I'd ask for forgiveness properly this time. That I'd talk to her about the divorce because I wasn't going to let her go. Not now. Not after everything.
But when I finally gathered the nerve and stepped into the penthouse, it felt too quiet.
Too still.
I searched her usual spots the balcony, the reading corner, the guest room she sometimes disappeared into when she needed space.
Nothing.
I asked the maids.
They shook their heads. "We haven't seen her since last night, sir."
A chill sliced through me.
No. No, no, no
Had she already left?
Did she really mean it when she said she wanted the divorce?
I shouted her name once, twice, louder. My voice echoed through the walls as I tore through every corner, searching every locked door, every room.
Panic gripped my throat like a vice.
Then
Through the window in the hallway, I saw her.
Outside.
Beneath the tall tree in the garden, curled up in one of the old wooden chairs.
My heart dropped.
I ran.
"Evelyn!"
She didn't respond.
I knelt beside her. Her skin was flushed.
I touched her forehead. She was burning.
She'd spent the whole night out here. In that thin nightdress. In the wind and cold.
Alone.
Because she was trying to avoid me. Because I had made her feel like this house, like my presence, wasn't safe anymore.
"Damn it," I breathed, gathering her in my arms. Her body was limp against mine, her breath hot and shallow.
"Call the doctor , Now," I barked at the nearest helper as I stormed back into the house.
I held her close as I carried her through the halls.
I tucked her gently into the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin .
Her skin still burned beneath my fingertips.
I sat beside her, not moving, still holding her hand.
The doctor arrived quickly, examined her quietly, respectfully, then handed me a list of medications and instructions.
But I had only one question.
"Why hasn't she woken up yet?"
He looked at me, hesitant. "Her fever is high, yes. But it's not just that. I believe it's stress-related. Emotional exhaustion, perhaps."
My stomach sank.
"She needs rest," he said gently. "For both her body and her mind."
Then he left.
And I stayed.
All day.
The sun shifted across the floor. Time passed. I didn't eat. Didn't drink. I just sat there.
Waiting.
Silently begging for her to open her eyes.
And finally she did.
Slowly. Sleepily.
But when her gaze locked onto me, she didn't smile
Instead, she pulled her hand out of mine like my touch burned.
Her eyes widened. Her face paled.
"Why is there blood on your shirt?" she asked, voice weak.
I looked down. I had forgotten.
I shook my head quickly. "It's not mine, It's Mikhail's. I only taught him a small lesson, don't worry. He's still alive."
She sighed like she didn't have the strength to be shocked anymore.
"I don't want you to end up being a murderer because of me," she murmured.
"I won't," I said softly.
Then I exhaled slowly. My pride fought it, but I let the words come out anyway.
"I'm sorry, Evelyn."
"I wanted to comfort you that night. I came to comfort you. But I never learned how. I've lived most of my life alone. I don't know how to say the right things. I don't know how to fix someone when they're breaking in front of me."
She didn't speak.
"I don't expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know I'll do better."
I paused.
"I'll control my anger. I promise. It always gets the better of me, but I'll change. I have to because if I loose you..."
I couldn't finish the sentence.
She looked at me, pale, tired
"By any chance are you trying to convince me to rethink about the divorce?" she asked, quiet mockery. "What now? Going to say you love me?"
I froze.
Because, yes I wanted to say it. The words were on my tongue. In my chest. Screaming inside my ribcage like a caged thing begging to be set free.
But I couldn't.
Because love meant vulnerability.
Love meant surrender.
And I wasn't ready to admit to her or to myself that she had that kind of power over me.
So I looked away.
"There's nothing like that," I said even as it tore something inside me.
She smiled. A sad, bitter smile that told me she already expected this answer.
"Then there's nothing left to rethink, My decision stands."
She turned her face away, pulling the blanket up higher.
And once again
I said nothing. Even though everything inside me screamed to stop her , to say yes, I care. Yes, I want you. Yes, I'm a damn coward but I can't lose you.
But I stayed still.
And watched her shut me out completely.