Page 32 of Cruel Juliet

I never thought I’d have to miss those days. Nostalgia isn’t a feeling I like dwelling on. Apakhancan afford to feel only two things: anger and satisfaction.

Until recently, Iwassatisfied. When Sima was mine, I barely cared about going out, let alone paying a visit to my usual hunting ground for women. I didn’t need any of that. At the end of the day, I just wanted to go home to her.

When I did go out, it was to show her the world and hand it all to her on a silver platter. I liked seeing her taken care of. I got a kick out of giving her more than she even knew how to ask for. She didn’t think she deserved it, but I knew it wasn’t true. She deserved the world.

Or so I fucking thought.

But she wasn’t the girl I thought she was. That part of our lives feels like a joke now.

She ran off on me. And last night, she tried to run again.

I should have seen it coming. No—Ididsee it coming. Every precaution I took was precisely to stop her from running.

But she still found a way.

I don’t want to think about what would have happened if Luka hadn’t been there. The idea of her slipping off into the night, with my child inside her, is enough to make rage rise through me again. I told myself she couldn’t be trusted, and she proved me right.

Dragging her back was the only choice. She looked at me like I was a monster. She doesn’t realize I’m still guarding her best interests, that I’m doing this for her as well as myself. For our child. If she leaves, there’s no telling who’ll find her.

As we cross the last stretch of the club, Sima’s words replay in my head.

“I’m not your pet. I’m your wife.”

Even now, I hear the desperation in her voice. But I can’t let it weaken me. She chose her side, and it wasn’t mine.

When she unbuttoned her blouse, though—I almost gave in. Part of me wanted to let go of my anger, tear down the distance between us and make her mine again.

But I stopped myself. If I touched her, I’d be the fool again. And that’s not a part I can afford to play twice.

The only true thing she showed me last night is our baby. I felt her kick. Solid, real. My child. For as long as it lasted, I wasn’t the ruthlesspakhanof the Gubarev Bratva, or the scorned husband with a runaway wife.

I was just a man feeling his daughter move for the first time.

I should have pulled away. Instead, I lingered. Let Sima manipulate me with the one weapon I can’t neutralize. Shelooked at me like she wanted me to admit the truth: that we’re bound together in a way neither of us can escape.

So I left. Locked the door behind me, put as much distance between us as I could.

It was the only way. If I gave in to her demands and let her roam free, she’d have vanished again.

Whatever else happens with us, that child is mine. And no matter how much Sima fights me, no one will take her—or the baby—from under my roof.

I force myself to snap out of it. Tonight isn’t about thinking in circles. It’s about making alliances.

I don’t trust easily. After Sima, I trust even less. But I’m not stupid. In this line of work, no one survives long without the right hands at their side.

Without Lev and Dimitri, I’m exposed. I need to solidify what’s mine.

And the man I’m meeting tonight might just help me do that.

The hostess guides me to the velvet curtain at the back, where my private table sits in its own private room. She pulls it aside with a practiced hand. “Your guest is expecting you, sir.”

I give her a curt nod and step past her into the privé.

The noise cuts off. In here, polished hardwood gleams. Rare bottles line the shelves. I glance at the man sitting at my table. He returns my gaze.

“Petyr Gubarev.” He doesn’t stand. His legs are wide, his posture commanding, like he’s used to being in charge of every room he walks into.

“Misha Lykov. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”