Page 21 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

T he next morning, I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck full of emotional baggage.

The kind that smells like Saxon North. My mouth is dry.

My head is pounding, my skin itchy from dried makeup, and my dress?

Still on. Wrinkled. Twisted. A strap halfway off my shoulder and bunched around my ribs like a noose.

I didn’t drink. Not a single glass of champagne.

Not one stolen sip of courage. And still—I feel hungover.

Not in my body. In my soul. I blink up at the ceiling like it might offer me answers.

But all it does is spin. Everything aches.

My muscles. My chest. The corners of my eyes where tears wanted to fall last night but didn’t.

Because I wouldn’t let them. Not in front of him. Not for him.

Saxon fucking North.

Why did he come? Why now? And why does the ghost of his voice still live in my ears like it pays rent?

I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose and groan. It feels like my brain is swollen. Like every thought has claws and they’re dragging through the inside of my skull .

I’m so tired. Of pretending to be fine. Of lying to myself and everyone else. And the worst part? The way my body betrays me. Still reacts to him like he’s the only thing that’s ever made it feel alive.

I curl into myself, dragging the covers up over my head, like maybe I can shut him out. Like maybe, if I hide long enough, the version of me that used to need him will burn out with the rest of the poison. But I know better. This isn’t going away on its own.

I roll onto my side and stare at the wall, biting my lip until it hurts. My phone buzzes somewhere on the floor. I ignore it. It’s probably Mia. Or Shelby. Or both. But there’s only one person I want right now. Someone who won’t try to fix me. Someone who never flinches when I crack.

Tayana. The keeper of my secrets. The only person who doesn’t ask for the cleaned-up version of my pain. She sees me—really sees me—and somehow still stays.

I reach for my phone and type two words.

“You up?”

And when she responds a minute later with:

“Always. Want me to come over with coffee?”

I finally breathe. Because the storm inside me doesn’t feel quite so deadly when I know someone’s willing to sit in it with me.

“Two almond cappuccinos, one triple-shot because I knew your soul would be crying,” Tayana says, dropping the tray on the kitchen counter. “And a lemon muffin because carbs heal. ”

I want to smile, but I don’t even have the energy for it. I take the coffee, nod in thanks, and lean against the counter like it’s the only thing holding me up.

Tayana watches me for a beat, then pulls out a stool and waits.

She’s beautiful in that way that Russian princesses often are—like her bloodline was forged in ice and fire and violence.

There’s a kind of old-world elegance to her.

Regal without trying. Her cheekbones could cut diamonds, and her eyes—sharp and gray as winter steel—miss nothing.

She’s the kind of woman people stare at, but never for long.

Not because she’s forgettable, but because there’s something in her gaze that warns: Don’t look too long unless you’re prepared to pay a price for it.

Her hair is dark and thick, usually twisted into something careless that somehow still looks like it belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine.

And when she smiles, really smiles, it’s a rare thing—like the sun catching frost. But when she’s holding you in her arms, whispering truths you didn’t know you needed to hear, she feels like safety in a world full of open wounds.

She’s my constant. My secret-keeper. My anchor. And if it wasn’t for her and her husband, Rafi Gatti, I wouldn’t be here today. I owe my life to Rafi, the youngest Gatti brother. Not figuratively. Not poetically. Literally.

Because when I was nothing more than a name on a list and a whisper in the dark, he kept looking.

He kicked in doors, he broke rules, he dragged the worst of the underworld into the light until they had nowhere left to hide.

He didn’t stop; he chased my ghost through the city like it was sacred.

And maybe to him, it was. Because ultimately, he’s the one who found me.

And if he hadn’t, maybe I’d be buried in a ditch somewhere.

Maybe I’d be alive but unrecognizable—hollowed out, walking the earth like a corpse with my name crossed off a missing persons list. So yes. I owe Rafi Gatti everything.

And because of that, I owe my loyalty—the unflinching, wordless kind—to the Gatti family. And maybe that’s part of why I trust Tayana the way I do. Because the man she chose to build her life with is the one who refused to let mine end.

Tayana never prods or asks. She knows I’ll get there when I’m ready. In the end, that’s what undoes me. Because within seconds, the words start spilling out of me like I’ve lost the ability to filter anything.

“I think I’m in love with the man who betrayed me,” I say, voice raw.

Tayana lifts an eyebrow, but she doesn’t interrupt.

I stare at the rim of my coffee cup. “Saxon North. Ever since he’s come back, I feel like my life has been a mess. I don’t want to be just some inconvenient footnote in a love story he thinks we’re still living.”

Her silence makes it worse. It makes it real.

“And I hate it. I hate how my body remembers him. Like my pulse is waiting for the green light. Like I haven’t spent months trying to cut him out of my system.”

I swallow hard. It scratches.

“Last night, he kissed me. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to scream that he doesn’t get to show up and light a match and walk away again.”

Tears burn behind my eyes, hot and unwanted.

“And the sickest part?” I whisper. “I miss him.” My voice cracks. “I still miss him.”

Tayana doesn’t move for a second. Then, slow and deliberate, she slides off the stool and pulls me into her arms.

I don’t sob. Instead, I emit the kind of grief that leaks out through clenched teeth and trembling exhales.

She holds me like a sister, her hand gently rubbing circles on my back.

`“You’re not weak for feeling that,” she says into my hair. “ You’re human. You’re allowed to want the person who broke you, even while you're learning to survive without them.”

I close my eyes and let the words settle.

Because she doesn’t judge me. She sees me.

She understands in a way no one else does.

Not even Mia. And God, I love my sister—but I can’t unload this on her.

Not after everything she’s endured. Not after what I cost her.

Because I did. I cost her everything once.

But Tayana? She’s different. Maybe it’s because she’s not just a survivor—she’s a fighter.

She clawed her way out of her own trauma and came back not with fire, but with mercy.

She’s dedicated her life to rescuing women like me and burning the trafficking rings that tried to erase us.

She knows the language of the broken. She speaks it fluently.

So yeah. That’s why I’m here. Not in therapy.

Not in a confessional. But here. With her.

Because Tayana Kamarov doesn’t just understand trauma.

She reaches for it. And somehow… that makes all the difference.

I stare at my hands, twisted in my lap, before I let more words rise like bile from the back of my throat. Tayana doesn’t blink. She just leans forward like she’s been waiting for this moment the whole time.

I don’t look at her. My eyes stay glued to the floor, the pattern in the rug swimming beneath me. She’s the only one I’ve ever told about what happened between me and Saxon. The only one who knows the extent of what I went through. And I know that my secrets are safe with her.

“I don’t mean to. I don’t want to. But Saxon… he was the only good thing in a place where everything was designed to break me.”

My voice cracks, but I don’t stop.

“I was nothing there. A number. A body. Someone to sell, trade, beat. And then he was there.”

My fingers twitch. My nails dig into my palms. “And for a second… I let myself believe him. I let myself hope. ”

“And then he disappeared,” Tayana murmurs.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “He disappeared. And so did my hope. When he left, I thought I imagined him. That I’d finally lost it. That I’d hallucinated a savior because the pain was too much to bear on my own.”

“But he was real,” Tayana says softly.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“And now he’s back. In my space. In my head. In my world. And I don’t know what’s worse—that I still want him… or that I sort of still trust him.”

“How does that make you feel, Maxine?”

Tears prick. My chest tightens.

“He’s my trigger,” I whisper. “And my tether. Being around him makes me sick. But it also makes me feel alive. And I hate it. I hate that I still want the man who abandoned me in that place.”

Tayana doesn’t try to patch the cracks or drown me in clichés.

She just listens—really listens—like she understands that some things aren’t meant to be fixed, only carried.

And when she does speak, it’s never to fill the silence.

It’s always something I didn’t know I needed to hear until it’s already settled deep in my chest. She leans in, her voice low and sure.

“You don’t hate him, Maxine. You hate the version of yourself that needed him.”

That shatters something inside me. I close my eyes, a tear slipping free.

“It’s easy,” she continues. “So easy to form a bond with the only light in a place made of darkness. Saxon offered you something no one else did. Hope. Salvation. A moment of kindness in a world built on cruelty. That kind of connection is... addictive.”

“I see him in my dreams,” I choke out. “Sometimes he’s saving me. Sometimes he’s just watching. But he’s always there. Like a scar that never heals. ”

Tayana doesn’t console me or offer tissues. She just lets me be. And that, somehow, is enough. Because this isn’t pity. It’s recognition. She knows what it’s like to love your captor, your savior, your sin—when they all wear the same face. Her hand brushes my arm.

“Whatever you feel for him,” she says, “you survived with it. Don’t punish yourself for needing light in a place of darkness.”