Page 45 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

LUNA

Three weeks pregnant.

That’s how far along I was when I went into that apartment outside the city, the one Chernov and his brothers used like a goddamn slaughterhouse.

I didn’t know it then.

I walked into hell with a baby inside me.

Even Misha hadn't noticed I’d stopped drinking wine then. That I lingered longer in the bathroom with trembling hands. That I held my stomach sometimes when no one was watching—like it might anchor me.

Now I’m six weeks pregnant. I know that for certain. And the weight of it hits me differently.

It wasn’t a surprise. Misha never used protection. Not once. We were fire and gasoline, reckless and raw. So no, this wasn’t unexpected. But it was still unplanned. And I wasn’t ready to let him know. Not like this. Not when he was halfway gone already.

Ever since he returned from that blood-soaked hellhole Chernov dragged him to, broken ribs, infected wounds, burn scars on his back—he hadn’t truly come home. Not to me.

He was alive, yes. Crowned Pakhan. Respected. Feared. But not... present.

Most nights I slept alone. Curled into cold sheets that used to hold him.

I left the lamp on until two, hoping he’d walk in.

That he’d sit at the edge of the bed, kiss my knee like he used to, say, “Move over, Malyshka. I missed my girl.” But all I heard were the distant footsteps of his guards in the hallway.

I understood power came with a price. But did it have to cost us?

So I reminded him. Of the contract. Of the twelve months I signed away under pressure, under fear, under the illusion that I had no choice. In five days, that contract would expire.

But Misha? He didn’t even flinch.

He looked up from his desk, surrounded by blueprints and bloodied ledgers, and asked if I wanted to watch a film with him that night. I said yes. I even wore lipstick.

We watched the film in silence. He didn’t touch me once. And by morning, he was gone again. Another strategy meeting. Another alliance. Another war that no longer existed.

So I asked myself the question I’d been avoiding for weeks:

How could I raise a child in this kind of silence?

How could I bring a baby into a home where love only lives in shadows? How would he have time for a child when he barely sees me?

Vargas cartel is still out there, yes. My father too. But they’re ghosts now. Misha rules Yakutsk. And yet, he’s still fighting battles like he hasn’t noticed peace arrived and brought a crib with it.

And a part of me still wonders... will he ever take revenge on my father for what was done to him?

But vengeance can’t raise a child. Obsession isn’t the same thing as love. And I deserve more. My baby deserves more.

If we ever get back together, if it has to be different. He has to ask. Properly. Propose. Engage. Marry me with my consent. Not with a contract. Not with force. Not with threats and locked doors.

And yes, I still love him.

But sometimes, loving someone means letting them go.

I miss Gabriella. I need to see her. I need to remember who I was before all this blood and power and pain. Maybe I need Colombia more than I realized. If I have to raise this baby alone... so be it.

The knock on the door startled me.

“Come in,” I said, brushing tears off my cheek before they could betray me.

Sofia stepped in with a soft frown, holding a silver tray. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, voice tighter than I meant it to be.

“Dinner is ready downstairs.”

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t leave. Instead, she crossed the room and sat beside me, like a mother would. Gentle. Patient. Too wise for the lies I was trying to live with.

Her voice was low. “I know what it looks like when a woman is carrying. And you, my dear... you look like a storm trying to hide a heartbeat.”

I stiffened. “I’m not—”

Sofia gave me a look that silenced the denial.

“I won’t push,” she said, laying a warm hand over mine. “But when you’re ready... I’ll be here. You shouldn’t have to carry so much alone.”

I blinked rapidly, afraid my silence might become sobs. Sofia stood and left quietly, her perfume lingering like comfort.

I slipped out an hour later, telling Misha’s driver I was craving a snack.

Instead, I walked into the dim backroom of a notary’s office and asked for the divorce papers. The woman didn’t recognize me—thank God. She slid the crisp documents across the table, and my hands trembled as I touched them.

This wasn’t strength. This was heartbreak.

Tears hit the page before ink did.

My palm flattened over my belly.

Forgive me, I whispered. But I have to choose you.

If this man wants to be in your life, he’ll fight the right way. The honest way. The way I deserve.

I held the papers to my chest, swallowed the sob threatening my throat, and whispered the words I knew would break me later:

“If he wants me... let him come find me. But not like this.”

By the time I returned to the estate, the sky had darkened into violet bruises. I set the envelope in my drawer. I wouldn’t sign it. Not yet. I’d give him one more chance.

So I picked up the phone.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” I said quietly when he answered.

There was a pause.

His voice dropped, sharp and suspicious. “Is something wrong?”

Yes. But I didn’t say that.

“I just want to talk.”

Another pause. “I’ll be there.”

I looked out the window as I hung up. I wasn’t hoping. I wasn’t begging.

I just needed to see if the man I fell in love with... was still somewhere inside the monster I’d married.

“I’ll make dinner myself tonight,” I told Sofia, rolling up my sleeves as I stepped into the kitchen.

She blinked. “You... cook now?”

“Just for tonight.”

“Should I help?”

“No. Don’t cook anything. Please.”

She hesitated, eyes scanning my face like she was trying to read the fine print of my soul. But she nodded slowly and leaned on the marble counter, arms crossed gently as she watched me.

I pulled out the ingredients one by one, the ones he always asked for on long nights—the ones he once told me reminded him of his mother’s kitchen growing up. I knew what he loved: roasted lamb in white garlic sauce, warm black bread, potatoes caramelized in honey and salt. Comfort food. Home food.

I seasoned everything with trembling hands, every stir a prayer, every sizzle a heartbeat.

“Luna,” Sofia said softly behind me, “why tonight?”

I didn’t turn. “It’s either a goodbye meal... or a new beginning.”

She didn’t say anything. But I felt her gaze linger like a hand on my back, warm and worried.

When the food was done, I plated it carefully, lit the candles in the dining room, and poured the wine. I poured one glass of red, the one he liked after long meetings—and left mine empty. His seat at the end of the table was still pulled out from last week. I left it that way.

Dinner was set for 9.

At 9:03, I told myself he was just caught up with business.

At 9:20, I whispered, He’ll be here. He promised.

At 9:45, I began folding the napkin on my lap over and over, my stomach churning from more than just nausea.

By 10:00, the food was cold.

And so was the seat across from me.

I sat there a while longer, watching the flame of the candle flicker in the draft. My fingers brushed over the lip of the wine glass, untouched.

I had given him one more chance. And he didn’t come.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s really over.

I stood slowly, my limbs heavy, my throat thick. The hallway felt longer than usual as I walked back to our room.

I opened the drawer where I had hidden the papers, pulled them out.

My hands were trembling.

My heart was racing.

Is this how it ends?

All the bruised kisses, the whispered Russian in the dark, The night we made a mess in the painting studio... and still fucked there, with color on our hands and need in our mouths.

Would our child grow up never knowing him?

Would he ever know them at all?

I clenched the papers tightly in my fist.

No. I need to go. I need to start over. I can’t raise a child with a man who chooses his empire over us.

Still, I gave him one last chance. Just one more.

I picked up the phone and called.

It rang.

No answer.

I called again.

Still nothing.

The air left my lungs like a blow to the ribs. I felt stupid. Empty.

I walked over to his side of the closet, where a few of his jackets hung. I placed the divorce papers carefully inside one of his inner drawers—right on top of the twelve-month contract he once claimed he had burned.

Liar.

Then I turned, wiped my tears, and started packing.

It wasn’t much—just what I needed. My clothes. My journals. My baby’s first sonogram, hidden deep in the pocket of my coat.

When I dragged the suitcase through the hall, its wheels thudding softly behind me, Sofia appeared at the corner.

“Luna...” she whispered, voice breaking. “Stay. Please.”

I stopped.

We stared at each other for a moment—two women with the same sadness in their eyes, different lives, same pain.

“I have to go,” I said quietly. “Please don’t tell him.”

She shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. “He loves you. You know that.”

“Then he should have shown up.”

She stepped forward like she might stop me, but I raised a hand gently. “Don’t. Let me go.”

I found the secret exit—the one the guards weren’t stationed at this hour. I pressed the code, slipped through the narrow door into the cold air.

The night wrapped around me like a bitter blanket. My breath fogged the air. My fingers tightened around the suitcase handle.

I am not leaving because I stopped loving him.

I’m leaving because I still do.

And sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is leave before you’re unloved completely.