Page 122 of Cruel Juliet

I can see how hard it is for her. After growing up in a place where survival meant hiding, she isn’t any better at this than I am. Talking. Being honest.

But we’re both going to have to learn. If we want this to last, we have to be able to do this. Trust each other with the truth. No matter how ugly.

“Okay,” she whispers, like she’s made up her mind. “Then I need to be honest too.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“I don’t ever want to live like the other Bratva wives do.” Her gaze searches mine. “Pretending they don’t see what’s right in front of them. Smiling while everyone else whispers about theirhusband’s affairs.” Her tone is hesitant, but her words aren’t. She’s clearly thought this through. “I couldn’t live with that. I’d feel like a fool.”

She’s not accusing me of anything. Just telling me the truth, the same way I asked her to. Her words come from the same fear that drove her to run: fear of losing her dignity, of being trapped in a life built on lies.

“I understand,” I murmur. “And you won’t have to. Since the day I met you, I haven’t wanted anyone else. Even when you were gone, it never crossed my mind.”

“You mean that?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” I reach for her hand. My thumb brushes her knuckles. “My loyalty isn’t for show. And this—it’s not even just about love. It’s about respect.” I pick up the back of her hand and kiss it. “You’re my wife, Sima. I won’t humiliate you like that. Not ever.”

Sima’s eyes glisten. She exhales slowly, cheeks flushed, fingers trembling. “I believe you.”

“Good. Because it’s the truth.”

Her shoulders relax a little. I see relief on her face. Like she’s finally letting go of a heavy burden she’s been carrying her whole life.

“I don’t need perfect,” she says quietly. “I just need honest.”

“You’ll get both,” I promise. “Or I’ll make sure of it.”

For the first time all night, the tension between us eases.

She leans in and rests her head against my shoulder. I let my hand settle at the back of her neck and hold her there. The air feels lighter now, easier to breathe.

And finally, Kira’s words from this morning fade from my mind altogether.

48

SIMA

Petyr’s words echo in my head long after we stop talking.

He didn’t yell at me, or let anger get the best of him. He was mature—the kind of mature I’d taught myself not to expect from him. Not anymore.

For once, I believe every word.

The relief that spreads through me feels strange, almost unreal. For so long, I’ve been waiting for things to fall apart again. For one wrong word or one bad night to send everything back into chaos. But now, sitting beside him, I can finally imagine something different. A bright, whole future.

I picture Lilia growing up in a home that doesn’t feel like a cage. Where she can laugh too loud and never worry whether her parents are going to snap at her for it. She’ll learn that love isn’t something she has to earn. That it’s a gift.

When I think of my own childhood, the contrast makes my chest ache. My mother’s fear, my father’s anger. His voice tearing through the walls while she whispered apologies for the smallestthings, while he never said a single sorry. Not even after the parades of mistresses.

He didn’t see us as people. We were tools, proof of his control.

I used to think that was all there was. That every man turned love into ownership.

But Petyr isn’t that. I see that now. He’s not gentle by nature—he’s sharp, built to fight—but he tries. Every day, he tries.

And that’s what matters.

I glance at him now, at the quiet strength in his posture, the way his hand rests over mine even when he’s not speaking. There’s something different in his eyes tonight. A kind of calm that wasn’t there before.