Page 53 of Cruel Juliet

I want to tell her more. But I’m thepakhan.I don’t owe her explanations. She’ll do as I say if she knows what’s good for her.

I rise and smooth my tie. “Make a list. I’ll see it gets done.”

She nods once. Her mouth presses into a thin line. “Fine. Have it your way.”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes follow me, cool and unreadable, as I leave the room. I feel the weight of that stare for a long, long time after I’m gone.

23

SIMA

The door shut behind him hours ago, but the echo stays stuck in my head.

Petyr and his meetings. Always some shadowy deal, some problem only he can fix that conveniently seems to appear whenever he wants to avoid me.

Meanwhile, I’m trapped here. Again.

I’ve rearranged the pillows three times, folded and unfolded the same blanket, and stared at the ceiling long enough to memorize the cracks in the plaster. None of it makes me less furious.

I’m not even sure who I’m mad at. Him, mostly.

But also myself.

Because even after everything, I still feel something for him. I still want him. That fact alone should be grounds for my own psychiatric evaluation.

If the feminism didn’t leave my body last night, then I’m not sure it was ever there at all.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes.What a mess.I can’t believe I let myself be duped again. A few sweet gestures in that doctor’s studio, and I was already cooked.

“I’m so stupid.” I plunge my face into my hands and breathe. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot.”

He says he wants me to stay here, but I can’t go on like this. If we can’t figure out how to move past what’s already happened, then what? We’ll wind up killing each other. Or worse—living long enough to hate each other in silence.

Truly a love story for the ages.

I think about the way he looks at me sometimes, like he wants to rip me apart and hold me together all at once.

Maybe once I’m finally out of here, I’ll write a book:How to Fall for the Guy Who Locked You in a Mansion.Guaranteed bestseller. Because clearly, I’ve got issues, and their size is directly proportional to the toxicity of the man I fell for.

The truth is simpler, though. Nothing as fancy as the DSM-5.

I love him.

I never stopped loving him. It’s infuriating. Because love doesn’t erase the threats, the control, the way he talks about me like I’m both his most valuable property and his greatest weakness. Love doesn’t solve the fact that I don’t trust him, and he doesn’t trust me.

Love doesn’t conquer all.

But I still feel it.

The clock ticks on. The walls stay the same. And I keep fuming, pacing between anger and longing like it’s my full-time job.

It’s later in the evening when the door opens. Kira walks in with a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rises from the plate. The smell of food fills the room, heavy and warm.

She doesn’t smile. She never does when it comes to me. There’s probably something in the fine print of her prenup that forbids her from showing any signs of affection to her sister-in-law.

She sets the tray down hard enough that the silverware rattles. Then she glares at me. “I see you’re back in the fancy cell. Worked your way back into his bed fast.”

There it is. No attempt at subtlety, or God forbid, manners.