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“Why?”

A ferocity builds inside me, an anger so deep it threatens to consume everything.

“WHY?!” I shout when he doesn’t answer right away.

He jerks, complete panic on every inch of his face. “Th-that is her name. Dinara Marinova.”

No. Nonono!

“FUCK!”

Every muscle in my body locks. My mind goes blank, and then—everything crashes down.

“Is she related to Konstantin Marinov?” My tone comes out barely a whisper, but the words feel like venom on my tongue.

He nods, shaking with terror.

“How?!”

“She-she’s his cousin. Her father, Leo, and his father, Sergey, were brothers.”

And in that moment, the world tilts. I stagger back a step, the room spinning.

She can’t be a part of that family. She just can’t be.

No. Not her.

My hand falls, my body buzzing with adrenaline and fucking hatred.

“Get the hell out of here!” I bark, shoving the chef away.

He stumbles before jolting upright. Without a second glance, he bolts from the room. The space falls silent, but it only lasts a second.

“Cillian, please, look at me.”

Her hand rests on my back, but instead of warmth, it burns. I search for something to say, anything that won’t make this worse, but every word feels wrong.

And I know: once we have this conversation, whatever weare will be over.

“I didn’t know,” she pleads. “Not at first. I just?—”

“So you did know!” I flip around, curling my hands to control the rage running through my veins. “You knew about what happened to my mother and my feelings about your family, and you said nothing?”

“No, it’s not like that! I?—”

“You told me your name was Dinara Matrovskaya.” The rage courses through me like wildfire. “You’re a fucking liar, aren’t you?”

“No!” Her eyes well with tears, and the sharp sting of guilt pierces me. “That’s my mother’s maiden name! I don’t use Marinova because I…because I hate my father.” Her voice cracks. “I hate him.”

But I can’t hear it. I can’t seem to stop my anger from taking over, reliving those moments of watching my mother screaming as she burned alive. I see it, hear it, feel it, and it rips something inside of me open, leaving only pain and emptiness.

“Fuuuck!”

My fist slams into a nearby wall, the impact echoing in my bones. My knuckles crack, blood spilling across my hand as I pull it back.

“Oh my God!” She rushes to the table and takes a napkin, picking up my hand to stop the bleeding.

Her touch is nothing but poison.