“Of course.” I nod like the attentive husband I’m pretending to be, though every nerve in my body is still tight from the way she smiled at me. “Let me show you to our bedroom.”
She pauses in the doorway, taking it in like she’s waiting for something to click. When it doesn’t, I catch the faintest flicker of suspicion.
I keep my tone even, careful, as if a single wrong note might tip her off. “It’s yours, kotyonok. All of this is.”
“This feels…” She hesitates, and for a moment I think she might be remembering something. “Out of place, somehow.”
My pulse spikes. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like I should remember this room. Like my body expects something different.”
Because she’s never been here.
Because nothing about this life is real.
I school my face into calm. “Recovery plays tricks. Don’t force it.”
She nods, but unease lingers in her eyes as she walks to the bed. A silk nightgown lies across the comforter — one I chose to look modest, safe. A lie in satin.
“Will you be sleeping here, too?” she asks.
“Only if you want me to. I can take the guest room until you’re ready.”
Relief flickers across her face. “Yes. At least until I remember more.”
“Of course. Take your time, kotyonok.” I make the words gentle, but inside I’m already imagining the moment she won’t ask me to leave.
She smiles again, and it hits like a blade under my ribs. For a second I see the woman she might’ve been if she’d always been Katya instead of Alexandra. Mine without the lies. But that isn’t who she is, and I’ll never let myself forget it.
I leave her to settle in and retreat to my home office, where I pour myself three fingers of vodka.
The liquor burns down my throat, but it doesn’t burn away the image of her smile.
I kidnapped a federal agent.
I’m holding her prisoner and convincing her she’s my wife.
And I plan to make her love me before I destroy her.
Because she tried to ruin me.
Because I want revenge.
Because somewhere along the way, hatred bled into obsession.
I tell myself this is still about control. Still about evening the scales. But the truth is simpler.
I can’t let her go. And I never will.
2
Katya
He’s on the phone discussing murder, not shipping schedules.
I pause outside Dmitri’s office door with a coffee mug halfway to my lips, listening to him speak in rapid Russian. His voice has an edge I don’t recognize; it’s harder, colder. Nothing like the gentle tone he’s used since he brought me home yesterday.
“Nyet,” he barks, and the single word carries enough menace to make me take a step back. “Tell him if he doesn’t have my money by Friday, he won’t have his kneecaps by Saturday.”
