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Chapter Eleven

Knova

I pace the condo like an outdoor cat trapped in a stranger’s house. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or my brain. Or my heart. Everything feels itchy and misaligned, like I’m walking around in someone else’s skin. I tell myself I’m not spiraling, but I know a descent when I feel one. I’ve pulled enough pilots from wreckage to recognize the sound of metal groaning before impact.

I walk circles around the kitchen island. I wander in random looping paths through the living room. I tell myself that I’m getting worked up over nothing, but the more time I spend in my own head, the more I’m convinced that something’s up.

Who is Viktor with? Why wouldn’t he answer my questions this morning? It’s our first day off together since we did the deed, and instead of spending it with me, he’s off doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who. If this is his idea of the husband experience, I hate it.

I hate how fast I started liking it. I hate that I let myself fall into the rhythm of us—as if it were safe, as if it were permanent.

What if our sex didn’t mean anything to him? What if he was just doing it because I goaded him into it?

Finally, when I’m two seconds away from climbing the walls, I call Baylor. He doesn’t answer, but within seconds of my hanging up, he calls back.

“Sorry!” he exclaims. “I was fixing a blocked pipe.”

I snort. “Sure you were. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Pervert. I was literally cleaning my bathroom drain, and I didn’t want to touch my phone until I could wash my hands. What’s up?”

I flop onto the couch. “I think I made a mistake.”

I twist the dog tags around my neck. They feel heavier today. Maybe because last night, Viktor saw everything—the ugly parts. The soldier parts. And instead of running, he held me while I shook. He didn’t have to do that. So why would he want to stay?

“Knowing you? Probably.”

I drape my arm over my eyes. “Jerk.”

“Well? Spill the tea. Serve me up a hearty helping of that juicy gossip brisket.”

“You’re absurd.” I exhale and brace myself for a confession. “I slept with Viktor.”

There’s a long pause. “Uh, listen, I know you’re wanting sympathy here, but I’m having trouble mustering any up. He’s hot as hell, Knova. And you’re married to him. So… what makes you think it’s a mistake?”

I let him see all the parts of me I keep secret. I wriggle onto my side. I can’t get comfortable no matter what I do. My bones won’t settle down. “He left this morning and hasn’t come back.”

There’s another pause on his end. “Was there a fight?”

“No.”

“Really?” I can hear the arch of his eyebrows in the tone of his voice.

“Right? We haven’t fought in…” I count on my fingers. “Three days? Four? Since we slept together. Admittedly, that kind of started with a fight, but we haven’t fought since then.”

“Did he tell you to leave?” Baylor prompts.

“No. He asked me what he could bring back for lunch.”

“ Soooooo… you’re mad that he left the house without you?”

“It’s not that! I’m not trying to control him. Some communication would be nice, though. I have no idea where he is or who he’s doing.”

“Don’t you mean what he’s doing?” Baylor asks.

I shake my head. “He has been gone for three hours. Who . It must be a who .”

“Hmm.” His skepticism is palpable. “That seems like a bit of a leap.”

I flop to my other side. “What else keeps a guy away for five hours?”

“Lots of things. Practice and guy time?”

“Nope. Knight’s been texting me photos of his date day with Sofia.”

Of course, he has. They look stupidly happy. Like they know what they’re doing. Like it’s easy. What the hell are we doing, then? Are we playing house or building something real?

Baylor hums in thought. “Um… secret dance lessons to surprise you?”

I roll my eyes. “Hallmark-worthy, but unlikely.”

“I think there’s a logical explanation. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. That’s not the look of a man who’d cheat.”

“There’s not one type of man who cheats, you know. And maybe he only looked at me like that because he wanted me, and now he’s had me, and I haven’t been with anyone in forever, and even then… just the one. So… yeah. Obviously, he met up with a puck bunny. Viktor has a reputation.”

I mean, what even is “outreach,” anyway? That could mean charity. Or church. Or strippers named Charity working the church girl angle. He gave me nothing. Just that smug little shrug and a vague excuse—like I was supposed to fill in the blanks and be cool about it.

I don’t know how to do casual. I never have. Every time I give my body, I hand over my heart on a silver platter. The other night, I gave him everything. And he gave me a ghost story.

Baylor starts to respond, but the sound of keys in the doorknob makes me sit up.

“I gotta go!” I hiss. “I’ll let you know what happens.” I hang up and rearrange myself so that it looks like I’m not having an existential crisis.

I drop the phone and shove it under a pillow like that can somehow hide what I’ve done—what I’m afraid I’ve ruined. I don’t want Viktor to know how much I was hoping he’d pick me today. I don’t want him to see how easily I unravel.

“I’m back,” Viktor says.

I spare him a glance over the back of the sofa. He looks slightly mussed. Rumpled. A little sweaty. In need of a shower. “Huh. I barely knew you were gone.”

He holds up a bag he’s carrying. “You didn’t answer my texts, so I brought you a Cuban with sweet potato fries.”

He says it like that explains everything. Like a sandwich makes up for everything. Like I’m just supposed to melt because he remembered my favorite sides. I want to. God, I want to. But I’m too busy choking on what it means that he didn’t tell me where he was.

No details. No explanation. Just outreach. A standing thing .

Outreach is what they say when they don’t want you to ask follow-ups. When they don’t want to admit it was another woman, or a strip club, or something that wasn’t you.

He has the whole day off. And he didn’t spend it with me.

Damn him for knowing all my weaknesses. “Not hungry right now.”

He wilts a little. “Okay, I can stick it in the fridge for later.”

“Whatever.” My stomach chooses that moment to growl. It’s so loud that Viktor can hear me from where he’s standing.

He walks over to the sofa and sits on the other arm of the L, placing the bag on the table in front of me. “I feel like you’re upset with me. Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“I guess not, but I thought…” He trails off.

Of course he trails off. That’s all he’s been doing. Trailing. Pulling away. Letting me fill in the blanks and hoping I’ll still be there when he decides to come back.

How dare he have the gall to act like I’m the one who hurt him? I’ve been sitting here all day alone. No texts that said where he was. No effort to reassure me. Just vague silence and the hope that my body would forgive what his mouth wouldn’t admit.

I’m not mad because I didn’t know where he was.

I’m mad because he didn’t want me to be there with him.

“Have you heard from Dante about the annulment?” I ask.

Viktor sucks in a breath. His hands, resting on his thighs, bunch into fists. What the fuck? He got what he wanted. We fucked. He can check me off on his to-do list, carve a notch in his bedpost, whatever. My eyes burn. I’m this close to bursting into tears, but I refuse to show him any more of my weak points. Clearly, that was a mistake. Anger is the only emotion I can show him that won’t end in me getting my heart broken all over again.

“About that,” he says. “Technically, the marriage is now consummated. I don’t think we can get an annulment.”

I shift on the cushions. “Cool. Then we’ll get a divorce.”

The second I say it, I want to take it back. But I can’t. The armor’s on now, and I don’t know how to remove it without bleeding out.

I don’t reach down and take his peace offering. I don’t feel like eating anything. Fortunately, I don’t feel like crying, either.

I’m numb.

I used to think numb was better than broken. That silence was better than the sound of something shattering. But sitting here in Viktor’s condo, staring at the bag of food he brought just for me, I’m starting to realize the worst feeling in the world isn’t heartbreak.

But sitting here in Viktor’s condo, staring at the bag of food he brought just for me, I’m starting to realize the worst feeling in the world isn’t heartbreak.

It’s hope, dying slow.

Viktor’s quiet for a long beat. Then he stands with a low sigh and drags a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna go review game footage for a while. Let you have some space.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else—but doesn’t. Just gathers up the silence between us like it’s his own burden to carry and disappears down the hall toward his office, the sound of the door clicking shut way too final for a guy who swore he wanted to fight for me.

The couch is too soft. The room is too quiet. I tell myself I’m just going to close my eyes for a second and scroll TikTok until my brain shuts off—but somewhere between doomscrolling and disappointment, sleep sneaks in like a thief.

The dream finds me right away. It’s always the same.

I’m back in the helicopter.

It’s loud. Disorienting. The world outside blurs by in streaks of sand and smoke, rotors slicing the sky as static buzzes in my ear. I hear shouting—someone’s yelling my name—but all I can see is Mick. He’s on the floor. His head—

Oh, God.

His helmet is cracked. His eyes are open, but barely. There’s blood on the floor. So much blood.

I drop to my knees beside him. “Mick. Stay with me, baby. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

He smiles. Smiles. His mouth is red at the edges. “Hey, Knova,” he says, voice all breath, no strength. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” I whisper. I press my hands to his chest, desperate to stop the bleeding, to fix something I know deep down can’t be fixed. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like this.”

His gaze flits toward me, soft. “You’ve still got so much to do.”

“I’m not doing any of it without you.”

“Yes, you will.” His voice is thinner now. “You’ve always known when to let go.”

“I haven’t,” I whisper. “I don’t. Not now. Not ever.”

He exhales, and something inside him goes with it.

I’m sobbing, begging him to wake up, when I notice something tucked just behind his boot. A box. A ring. My chest cracks open as I fumble for it, as if my hands can rewind time. As if love can resuscitate him.

But when I look down again, it’s not Mick.

It’s Viktor.

The blood is the same. The smile is gone. And the ring in my hand might as well be a funeral shroud.

“No—Vik, stay with me,” I plead, shaking him, but he’s already gone. They always go.

Every man I love leaves.

I jolt awake with a gasp, hand flying to the tags around my neck.

The TV is still on. The sandwich Viktor brought sits untouched on the coffee table.

But I can’t stop shaking.