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“Is that how she sees me?” I ask.
Thiago’s voice tightens. “You had your chance to convince her otherwise, Zasha. But you didn’t.” He eyes me. “I gave her out in marriage, not sold her into slavery.”
I say nothing.
He exhales, frustration bleeding into fatigue. “Lola would have my head if I tried to keep Mara in a house where she’s wasting away. And I’d deserve it.”
I nod, then stand, and without another word, I walk out of Thiago’s office.
The gym becomes my escape.
Or maybe my cage.
Each day begins and ends with pain as I search for ways to release the hurt inside before it suffocates me. I push myself through drills that would break lesser men. I spar with Lev until my ribs ache, with Anton until my arms go numb, and with Viktor until neither of us can stand straight.
Punch after punch, sweat pours down my spine. My knuckles split open. I don’t tape them anymore. I like the sting. It reminds me I’m still here.
At home, the cleaning lady comes and goes quietly. She stops asking for ‘my wife’ after I snap at her the third time.
The divorce papers sit unopened on my desk. Occasionally, I look at them, just enough to sense the ache in my heart. Long enough to hear her voice echo in my mind. Just enough to question why I can’t simply sign the damn line and move on.
But I don’t. Because once I do, it’s final, and I can’t stomach that.
Not yet.
I take a big sip of my whiskey, embracing the burn that scorches my throat. This is the consequence of opening the door. Of hoping. Of believing any woman in her right senses would want me.
My drinking glass strikes the table with a dull thud. My hands shake as I scan the room and notice half a dozen empty bottles in the trash. The space reeks of sweat, smoke, and regret.
This is what’s left of me. A shell of the man who used to strike fear in the heart of others.
The sound of my office door opening makes me turn, and I see Viktor walk in. He and Lev step inside as if they own the place, their boots echoing against the polished floors, their presence disturbing the heavy silence I’ve spent weeks cultivating.
I’m slouched in the leather chair behind my desk, a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet beside me and the glass sweating in my hand. The room is dark except for the sliver of hallway light leaking through the open door.
Lev finds the light switch, flips it on, and I wince as the brightness slices through the fog in my skull like a blade. My eyes throb, along with my temples.
Viktor whistles low. “You look like hell.”
Lev doesn’t miss a beat. “And you smell worse.”
I don’t respond.
Viktor kicks his boots up on the edge of the desk like we’re about to play poker instead of talk about the crater in the middle of my life. “So. You gonna drink yourself to death?”
I say nothing.
Lev leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed. “Where is she now?”
I shrug, slow and sloppy. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Try again.”
Another shrug. I lift the glass to my lips and take a long, burning swig.
Lev squints at the stack of bottles in the corner. “You’ve got bloodshot eyes and only got empty bottles to show for it?”
I swirl the liquid in the glass. “And bruised knuckles. Don’t forget those.”