By the time I get to my bedroom, my tears have dried, and the urge to slam the door shut has disappeared, along with my anger. I sink into my bed, arms spread out on either side.
A quiet, gnawing sensation is digging a hole through my stomach—regret.
Not because I called Leo and saved Roman from getting killed. That was just…keeping my father from having the upper hand. It was my personal revenge for his secrecy and his selfishness.
Not for patching Roman up. No. It’s because I let him touch me. For not pushing him away when he kissed me, for yielding when he had me against the wall, baring my vulnerability to his control.
I could’ve stopped when he told me I was being foolish, when he whispered in my ear that if the roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t have saved me. I should’ve walked away, gathering the shreds of my self-esteem.
But I didn’t.
I let Roman touch me, knowing I wasn’t just giving access to my body but my heart.
I knew he was cruel, but I craved it anyway.
That’s what I regret.
“It’s happened,” I murmur, rising and heading to the bathroom. “It’s in the past,” I tell my reflection as I stare at it, looking into eyes that resemble mine. “I know better.”
It might’ve taken getting tossed away and being reminded that I don’t deserve his emotions to get my head on right, but I’m smarter now.
Shrugging my clothes off, I sink into the bathtub until the water covers my body. It’s hot, almost to the point of scalding, but I lean back, closing my eyes and taking it in. It sinks into my body, stripping away Roman’s touch—as much of it as possible.
I know much of it will remain in my mind, but for tonight, I’ll pretend like everything’s fine.
When the water turns cold, I step out and grab a towel, wrapping it around my body. I’m tired…too tired to do anything, so I climb onto the bed, tucking myself in with my towel still on.
Somehow, Roman doesn’t plague my thoughts, and I fall asleep quickly.
I wake up to the sun on my face, my head throbbing, and my stomach grumbling. Tossing on a shirt and sweats, I head down to get breakfast from the kitchen, only to find Leo conversing with Polina.
When I walk in, he notices my presence, and the conversation stops.
“Isabella,” he says as his brows dip slightly while he studies my appearance. “Good morning.”
At least he didn’t call me Mrs. Volkov. Funny how I went from claiming Roman’s last name to ditching it in less than twenty-four hours.
“Good morning,” I mutter, dragging my feet to the fridge for water. I grab a bottle and turn to Polina. “Is there anything to eat?”
She nods. “Yes, ma’am. I was going to bring it to your room, but I thought I’d let you sleep in a bit longer.”
My mouth drops in surprise.
Polina? Let me sleep in? If anything, I expected her to have the curtains drawn before I woke up or to see her standing at the foot of my bed with a quiet, displeased look as she adds to the list of my offenses.
“Well…” I shrug. “Thank you.” I deserve some extra kindness after the night I had.
“Where would you like to eat?”
Another odd question. “Here.” I walk to the island, positioning myself. She heads to the stove while I take a swig from the bottle, placing it uncovered on the counter.
“Are you feeling alright?” Leo asks me.
I nod without glancing up. “Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing.”
His tone isn’t convincing, and something about how he says it pulls at my nerves. I glance at him then—just a flick of my eyes—but it’s enough. He’s watching me with a vague, almost guarded concern, like he’s trying to read something between the lines of my silence.
“If I look like I didn’t get much sleep, that’s because I didn’t,” I say, my voice sharper than intended. The quiet tension makes me feel exposed, as if he already knows something I’m missing.
He probably heard the conversation from last night. Before Roman kissed me, he told Leo he needed to speak with me alone—so Leo walked into the house, not out of it.
And if he heard the argument after, then he must’ve known we were having sex.
Come to think of it… My fork hangs in midair. Polina would’ve heard too.
What do they think of me, letting myself go for a man who made it clear, several times, that I am his trophy bride? After my dramatic protest of wearing black to my wedding and the accusations I hurled at Polina, after running away and failing, I let Roman touch me.
“Worst.” I stab the eggs. “Mistake.” I stab again. “Of. My. Life.”
I chomp down hard instead of chewing, no longer tasting the flavor in the food. Everything feels bland, except Leo’s keen eyes still watching me.
“Okay.” I whirl around, pointing the fork at him. “What is it? Why are you here? Don’t you have to be with him?”
“That would imply that I’m his assistant or his bodyguard.”
I shrug nonchalantly. “Yeah. Exactly. That’s what you are, isn’t it? That’s why you follow him everywhere.” The jab is straight and meant to make him pissed, so everyone gets a slice of what I feel, but he merely purses his lips and tilts his head.
“I see your point. I drove him from your wedding. Your first wedding,” he corrects.
The part of my life that feels like it never happened. “I’m not sure I want to know the answer, but tell me.” I drop the fork and fold my arms. “Did you tell him it was a bad idea? Shooting a groom on his wedding day and stealing the bride? I get that he likes to make a statement, but it’s bad luck, you know.”
I drop my tone, and my lips curl meanly. “Enough bad luck that he might never get the revenge he thinks he deserves.”
Leo strokes his chin, unbothered by my fearmongering. “That would only work if he believed in superstitions in the first place. Which, I’m sorry to tell you—because it seems like something you’d want—he doesn’t. And Marco Ricci isn’t going to hide forever.”
I throw my hands in the air. “I don’t know who’s worse, you or him. And I also know why you’re here. You’re supposed to keep an eye on me so I don’t run away.”
“To where?” Leo asks.
To where?
I push the chair back noisily, standing up. “I’m allowed to leave the house, aren’t I?”
He nods.
“Good.” I grin. “Then I want to. I’m assuming you’re my designated driver. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” I add, tossing my hair over my shoulder as I stroll out of the kitchen. My stomach grumbles as I step into the hallway, and I groan, turning into the kitchen again.
Grabbing two slices of toast, I head out, shoving one into my mouth and chewing out of pure spite.
The second I walk into the vintage store, I sense it. Roman. From Mickey’s panicked eyes and his pale face, I know Roman must’ve visited him.
And the worst part? I know I led him right to this place.
Too bad. I held out some hope that he’d have something for me the next time I showed up. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m not trying to reach my father. Leaving the house and coming here was an act of defiance. To whom or what…I’m not sure.
“W-what are you doing here?” Mickey stammers as I walk to his counter, shuffling backward. “I don’t—I don’t have anything for you.” His eyes dart to the door, where the car is parked, and Leo is behind the wheel.
Leo was here too.
“It’s fine.” I shake my head, whispering as I lean over, “I’m not here for anything. I thought I’d check up on you.”
Mickey squints at me, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he leans back, hands fidgeting near the edge of the counter. “Why?”
I start to reply, when I see the marks on his wrist. Bind marks. They’re faint, but I know torture when I see it.
“Hold on,” I say as I toss my bag on his counter, spinning on my heel and making an angry beeline back to the door. Leo exits the car as he sees me coming, holding the back door open.
“What did you do to him?” I bark, planting my hands on my hips.
Leo raises a brow. “What did who—?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” I cut in. “I saw the look on Mickey’s face. He’s scared out of his mind. You did something, didn’t you? Tried to squeeze him for information about my father? Did you think my father would trust someone like Mickey? He can barely hold eye contact without sweating through his shirt.”
“That’s why he has only faint lines on his wrists,” Leo replies, unremorseful but not cruel. I wasn’t expecting an apology anyway. It only enforces the reason why he’s Roman’s best friend.
Kind, yet firm. “Chill,” he adds, closing the door. “I’m not going to hurt him again. He’s at the mercy of your father now, so perhaps that’s who you should reserve your anger for.”
I’m tempted to agree with his logic, against my better judgment, and I feel some grudging respect for it.
“Let’s go,” I say, keeping the information to myself. “I’m done here.”
He opens the door with ease and stands to one side. “Your wish is my command.”
As the car drives away, I happen to glance out the window just in time to see a man walk toward Mickey’s store. His face is hidden with a hood drawn around it, but I get the sinking feeling that he’s one of my father’s men.
The door opens, and he walks in, and my heart sinks even further with one final realization.
Mickey’s as good as dead.
