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I can't stop thinking about Denis as I sit behind the counter of my store. It’s been three nights since I argued with him over the guards, and something between us just hasn’t been the same.

The bell above the door chimes, but it's just the wind. No customers today.

My thoughts go back to us. I trace the wood grain of the countertop, remembering how Denis's strong hands felt against my skin. God, I miss him. Even after our fight, I ache for his touch, his voice, his presence.

"You're being ridiculous, Natalia," I mutter to myself. "He's probably not even thinking about you."

But I know that's not true. Denis is obsessive, protective. He's always thinking about me.

I stand up and stretch, my curves straining against my sweater. As I move to the window, something feels… off. Different.

That's when I realize what’s missing.

Denis's men, the ones who had been stationed to overlook my shop, have vanished. The café opposite looks naked without their hulking figures scattered across the chairs.

I think back to yesterday morning when he’d told me that he’s easing off the guards. I’d given him a thin-lipped smile, as though to say it’s the least he could do. After all, it was difficult to thank him for something he shouldn’t have done in the first place.

But, this distance between us is beyond the whole guard matter. It’s about our visions not aligning with my business. Even now, Denis is against an outside investor, while I feel like it’s the best thing to happen to my career.

I sink back into my chair, my fingers tracing the edge of the counter as I mull over my harsh words to Denis. "You're suffocating me," I'd spat at him, my temper flaring hot and quick like always. But now, in the quiet of my empty shop, I can't help but wonder if I was too hard on him.

"He's just trying to protect you, you stubborn girl," I mutter to myself.

I picture Denis's face, that jaw clenched with worry whenever I step out alone. It's overwhelming sometimes, but… sweet too, in its own intense way.

"Ugh, when did you get so soft, Natalia?" I groan, dropping my head into my hands. But I can't deny the warmth spreading in my chest as I think about Denis's thoughtful gestures—the little gifts he leaves, the way he remembers every detail I tell him.

I straighten up, eyeing the business card of the investor's representative on my desk. The promise of expanding my shop tempts me, but Denis's warnings echo in my mind.

"Okay, let's think this through," I say aloud, tapping my fingers on the counter. "Pro: More money for the business. Con: Potential mob connections that could get me killed."

I chew my lip, weighing my options. Finally, I reach for my phone. Denis’s anxieties stem from his world, and sometimes, it seeps into my consciousness.

But, there’s no reason I should be afraid. My business is going viral online, I’m unable to keep up with orders and it’s time to get an investor. Maybe, I could just have one meeting without Denis finding out, and I’ll hold it here. In the store. If the investor tries anything, those big glass windows will ensure someone outside notices and comes to my rescue.

It’s going to be totally okay. And once it’s a success, Denis and I will patch things up.

"Hello? Yes, this is Natalia Orlov. I'd like to schedule a meeting to discuss the further steps for investing in my brand… at my shop, if that's alright. Yes, tomorrow works perfectly."

As I hang up, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbles in my stomach. "There," I announce to my empty store. "A compromise. Meeting here, where it's safe. Denis can't argue with that, right?"

***

The next afternoon, the bell above the door chimes, and I straighten my blouse, plastering on my brightest smile. "Welcome to Natalia's!" I chirp, my voice a touch higher than usual.

The tall man strides in with confidence. He's tall and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that practically screams money. "Ms. Orlov, a pleasure," he says, his handshake firm. “Sergei Petrov.”

"Please, have a seat," I gesture to the cozy armchair I've set up. "Can I offer you some tea?"

As I pour, I feel a flutter of excitement. This could be it—the big break my little boutique needs.

"Now," Mr. Petrov leans forward, "tell me about your vision for expansion."

I launch into my well-rehearsed pitch, words tumbling out in my enthusiasm. "I've always dreamed of a store that fits the wearer, and not the other way around…"

But as I speak, something in Mr. Petrov’s demeanor shifts. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and they keep darting around the store as if looking for something.

"That all sounds… quaint," he interrupts, his tone dismissive. "But let's discuss more… practical matters. Your husband's operations, for instance."

I blink, caught off guard. Denis’s warnings come to mind. We have enemies everywhere. How does he know I’m married? Suddenly, the world around me closes in. I look out the window, seeing the street nearly empty, and try to buy myself some time.

"I'm sorry, but this meeting is about my boutique, not my husband's affairs,” I manage to say.

Natalia. Think. How can I get him out of here?

The man’s smile turns predatory. "Come now, Ms. Orlov or shall I say, Mrs. Zolotov. Surely you understand that everything is connected in our world."

A chill runs down my spine. This isn't right. This isn't about my store at all.

"I think perhaps we've had a misunderstanding," I say, standing on trembling legs as I motion to the door. "Maybe we should reschedule when we're both on the same page about the purpose of this meeting."

His eyes narrow, and all I see is danger. "I don't think that will be necessary, Mrs. Zolotov. We're just getting to the good part."

My mind races. How do I get out of this? Where are Denis's guards when I actually need them? I try to keep my voice light, but inside, I'm screaming at myself to end this now.

I plaster on my brightest smile, hoping it masks the trembling I feel inside. "Mr. Petrov, it's been lovely chatting, but I'm afraid I have another engagement I completely forgot about. My clients will be coming anytime now," I stand up, smoothing my skirt with shaky hands. "Perhaps we can reschedule for next week?"

Maybe if he thinks there’ll be people coming, he’ll leave in fear of getting caught.

His eyes narrow, and I feel a chill race down my spine. Something's very wrong here.

"I don't think so, Mrs. Zolotov," he says, his voice suddenly cold and hard. "We're not finished here. Your husband and his brothers entered my warehouse and stole my workers."

Suddenly, a memory rushes back. Denis coming home, all bruised and bloodied. Later, I discovered the truth. He was helping slaves escape from bonded labor from a rival group.

This man has to be talking about that incident. He’s a rival.

Before I can react, he lunges forward, grabbing my arm with bruising force. I yelp in shock and pain as he starts dragging me toward the door.

"What are you doing? Let go of me!" I cry out, struggling against his iron grip. My heart pounds frantically in my chest, and fear floods my system.

"You're coming with me," he snarls, his earlier charm completely evaporated. "Your husband needs to learn a lesson about not taking what’s his."

I dig my heels in, trying to slow our progress. "You're insane! Help!" I scream, hoping someone, anyone, will hear me.

Mr. Petrov's fingers dig deeper into my arm. "Scream all you want, little bird. No one's coming to save you."

Panic rises in my throat as I realize how terribly wrong I was about everything. Denis was right. I should have listened. Oh God, what have I done?

Suddenly, the door bursts open with a thunderous crash. One of Denis's guards rushes in, his weapon drawn. "Let her go!" he barks, aiming at the rival.

Relief washes over me. Thank God Denis didn’t pull out all the guards. But the relief is short-lived.

The man yanks me closer, using me as a shield. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he sneers. "Your boss stole our workers. We're just here to collect what's owed."

My mind reels. Workers? What is he talking about? Is he truly that delusional? Those people were slaves.

"Tell Zolotov we want our people back," the man continues, his grip tightening. "Or his pretty little wife pays the price."

The guard's eyes flick to mine, uncertainty clouding his features. I can see him weighing his options, trying to figure out how to protect me without risking my life.

"Please," I whisper, fear making my voice tremble. "Help me."

What happens next unfolds in a blur of violence. The guard lunges forward, and the man shoves me aside. I stumble, crashing into a nearby table. Pain explodes in my hip as I hit the floor.

Grunts and the sickening sound of fists connecting with flesh fill the air. I look up, my vision blurred with tears, to see the two men locked in a brutal struggle.

"Run, Mrs. Zolotov!" the guard yells, managing to land a solid punch to the rival’s jaw.

But I'm frozen, unable to move as I watch in horror. The man reaches into his jacket and pulls out a knife. The blade glints in the light, and my breath catches in my throat.

"No!" I scream, but it's too late.

The knife plunges into the guard's chest. His eyes widen in shock, a choked gasp escaping his lips. He stumbles backward, hands clutching at the wound as blood begins to spread across his shirt.

I can't breathe. This can't be happening. The guard—whose name I don't even know—collapses to the floor, his life ebbing away before my eyes.

The rival turns to me, his face a mask of cold determination. "Now," he says, wiping the bloody knife on his sleeve, "where were we?"

My heart pounds as he advances, a length of rope in his hands. I scramble backward, my curvy frame hindering my movement. "Stay away from me!" I shout, my voice trembling despite my attempt at bravery.

"Now, now, Natalia," he croons, his tone sickeningly sweet. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

I grab the nearest object—a heavy vase—and hurl it at him. "I won't let you take me!" The vase shatters against his shoulder, but he barely flinches.

As he lunges forward, I roll to the side, my blonde hair whipping across my face. My mind races. I need to fight, to survive. For the guard. For myself. For Denis.

"You're quite feisty for such a little thing," Mr. Volkov chuckles, easily dodging my flailing kicks.

I grit my teeth. "I'm tougher than I look." But even as I say it, I feel the rope tightening around my wrists. No, no, no!

"Let go!" I thrash wildly, but his grip is like iron. Tears of frustration burn in my eyes as he secures the knot and then ties my legs, leaving me completely motionless.

He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Your husband should have known better than to cross us. Now, you'll pay the price."

Fear claws at my throat as he hoists me over his shoulder. The room spins, and I realize with growing dread that we're moving toward the exit.

"Help!" I scream, knowing it's futile. The streets outside are quiet, and Denis's guards are gone. I've never felt so alone, so terrifyingly vulnerable.

As Mr. Volkov reaches for the door handle, I close my eyes tightly. Please, someone, anyone—help me.

Suddenly, the door explodes inward with a deafening crash. My eyes fly open, my heart leaping into my throat as I catch sight of the one person who can save me.

"Put. Her. Down." Denis’s voice is low, dangerous, and ready to kill—a tone I've never heard from him before. But then again, you won’t find me complaining.