Page 36

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TASH

I stare at the fifth bouquet of roses delivered this week, their petals a deep burgundy that reminds me of blood—of his blood seeping through his shirt at the warehouse. I grab the arrangement and dump it in the trash, ignoring the card that falls to the floor.

My phone buzzes with another text from him. I don't need to look to know it's another apology, another plea to let him explain.

The doorbell rings again. This time, it's a Cartier box, delivered by a courier who vanishes before I can refuse it. I set it unopened on the growing pile of similar packages on my coffee table—next to the Hermès scarf, the Louboutin heels, and what I suspect is a Fabergé egg.

"For fuck's sake, Dmitri." I massage my temples to ward off the headache building behind my eyes.

My office at the museum has become a minefield, too. Yesterday, I arrived to find my entire desk covered in white orchids. The day before the orchids, it was a first-edition art history book.

I've changed my route to work three times this week to avoid his drivers, who seem to materialize at every corner. But there's no escaping the constant reminders of him or the guards he's stationed outside my building, which I pretend not to notice. Or the messages from his assistant about "urgent board matters," the way my skin tingles when I remember his touch.

My phone buzzes again—it's Sofia calling me.

"Hey, the gifts aren't working, are they?" she asks without preamble.

"Tell your brother-in-law he can't buy my forgiveness."

"He's... struggling. Nikolai has never seen him like this."

I sink onto my couch, carefully avoiding looking at the pile of unopened presents. "He lied to me, Sofia. He used me as a pawn in his war. How am I supposed to trust anything about him now?"

"I know. But?—"

"Don't." I cut her off. "Just... don't."

"At least let me take you to lunch," Sofia says gently. "You need to eat something besides coffee and spite."

I laugh despite myself. "I had a croissant this morning."

"The one he had delivered from that French bakery you love?"

"I threw it away." A lie. I'd eaten every flaky, buttery bite, hating myself for enjoying it.

"Come on," she coaxes. "Thai food at that place across from your apartment. My treat and I promise not to mention him more than three times."

I glance at the pile of gifts, each chosen with irritating perfection. The bastard knows my taste too well. "Only three times?"

"Okay, maybe five. But I'll buy you extra spring rolls to compensate for it."

My stomach growls, betraying me just like every other part of my body seems to these days. "Fine. Half an hour?"

"Perfect. And Tash?"

"Hmm?"

"Wear something cute. I bet you've been living in sweats for days."

She's right. I've been dressing like I'm in mourning, which is ridiculous because I'm not mourning him. I'm angry. Furious. Even if sometimes, late at night, I catch myself reaching for my phone to tell him about my day or share a joke only he would get.

"Half an hour," I repeat, ending the call before she can read too much into my silence.

I head to my closet, pushing past the new dresses he's sent—each one perfectly tailored to my measurements. I pull out my favorite vintage Chanel dress, the one I bought myself after my first successful exhibition—the one that has nothing to do with him.

I slide into the booth across from Sofia at our favorite Thai place, dreading this conversation. The familiar scent of lemongrass and basil should be comforting, but my stomach churns.

"How are you holding up?" Sofia asks, her eyes soft with concern.

I fiddle with my napkin. "I'm fine. Working. Busy with the new exhibition."

"Dmitri's healing well," she says carefully. "The doctors say he's lucky—all three bullets missed anything vital."

My hands freeze on the napkin. Three bullets. I'd only seen one wound. The image of blood seeping through his white shirt flashes through my mind.

"I shouldn't have just left him in that garage," I whisper, the guilt I've been suppressing bubbling up. "He was bleeding, and I just got in the car to go home with Akim."

"Hey, no." Sofia reaches across the table to grab my hand. "You were in shock. Everything was chaos. And his men were right there, and they know how to handle these situations."

"I know you're right," I sigh, releasing the napkin I've been twisting. "He was already walking to the medic when Akim pulled me away. His property was secure, guards everywhere."

The memory flashes vivid and sharp—Dmitri's jaw clenched against the pain, blood staining his designer suit, but still barking orders. Still in control, even with bullet wounds. I think one of his men, Viktor, supported his arm as they headed toward the medical suite.

"He has an entire trauma team on staff," Sofia adds, stirring her tea. "Better equipped than some hospitals."

Of course he does. The thought almost makes me laugh. Everything about Dmitri's world is precisely arranged, backup plans for backup plans. Even getting shot probably followed some predetermined protocol.

"I just..." I pause, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions. "I keep seeing the blood. And then I remember why we were there in the first place, what he did to Katarina, and I get angry all over again."

"The spring rolls are here," Sofia announces as our server approaches, clearly trying to distract me. She's right—I've replayed that night enough times.

I focus on the steaming plate in front of us instead of the memory of Dmitri's blood on my hands when I'd tried to help him up. He'd pushed me away then, ordering me to get to safety with Akim. His voice had been rough with pain but still commanding, expecting absolute obedience.

And I'd obeyed, hadn't I? Let myself be hustled away while he dealt with the aftermath of his war. Just like I'd let myself be drawn into his world in the first place, ignoring all the warning signs.

"Eat," Sofia nudges the plate toward me. "Before they get cold."

I pick up a spring roll mechanically, but the guilt and anger churning in my stomach leave little room for appetite.

I push my spring roll around the plate, my appetite gone as I make my decision. "I can't keep doing this, Sofia. The gifts, messages, and guards watching my every move are suffocating."

"He's trying to protect you," she starts, but I cut her off with a shake.

"No. Dmitri is trying to control the situation like he controls everything else. Has he once, just once, tried to talk to me? To explain why he kept Katarina prisoner? To tell me anything real about himself or his world?"

Sofia's silence is answer enough.

"That's what I thought." I straighten my spine, drawing on the strength I've built over years of navigating the cutthroat art world. "Until he can be honest with me—honest, not just strategic half-truths—I won't see him. No more gifts, guards, or cryptic messages through intermediaries."

"Tash—"

"I mean it, Sofia. I deserve better than being another chess piece he moves around his board. If he wants me in his life, he must show me who he is. All of it, not just the polished facade he presents to the world."

I reach for my glass of water, keeping my voice steady. "I won't be bought or manipulated. Not even by Dmitri Ivanov—especially not by him."

The resolve settles into my bones, feeling right for the first time since that night in the warehouse. I've spent too long letting myself be swept along by his current. It's time to stand my ground.