I smile as I close the door behind me tight, final.
Then I pause.
Fuck it.
If today’s going to insist on being an unhinged soap opera, I might as well grab the popcorn. Or light the damn match and watch it burn.
I take the stairs. The elevator feels too slow, too calm. I need movement, air, anything to outrun the static crawling under my skin.
To ignore the sharp pang in my heart. The burning behind my eyes. The fucking satisfied look on her face. The miserable look on Lyle’s.
Fuck them. Fuck them both.
By the time I hit the lobby, the show’s already started.
I walk in just in time to see Dimitri’s fist connect with Akim’s jaw clean, vicious hit that snaps his head sideways.
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd.
Phones are already out. Cameras rolling. Of course.
–
–
a
a
Akim’s entourage scrambles to separate them, but they’re useless tangle of hands and useless yelling while the two men snarl like dogs
with a bone.
Honestly, I’m hoping they just let them go. Let them tear each other apart in a fountain of bruised egos and poor decisions.
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Would save me the secondhand embarrassment of watching two grown men treat me like a prize pig at auction.
The woman beside me lets out a strangled gasp, wringing her hands
–
–
and begging someone anyone to break up the fight. It takes a
second, but then I clock the expensive pearls, the tight bun, the tragic look of helpless nobility.
Ah. There she is.
Mrs. Sokolova. Akim’s mother.
And just like that, a plan blooms. Rotten and exquisite.
The real reason I dated Akim for so long? His family deals in precious stones and my mother would have killed to get her hands on diamonds.
The plan now? Ruin Anastasia. Humble my mother. Maybe even get home in time to finish my paperwork while I’m at it.
I gently touch her shoulder, masking glee with concern. “Aunty? Is that… you?”
She spins toward me, eyes red–rimmed and frantic. “Taisiya? Oh, darling girl! Thank God you’re here! He’s going to get himself killed! I don’t know where his bride has gone, everything is falling apart-” Her voice collapses into hiccuping sobs.
I nod solemnly and pat her arm, the picture of calm. A steady hand. A composed future in–law. Not at all the woman about to blow her entire family to hell.
“Aunty,” I say gently. “I tried to speak to Akim, but he’s beyond
reasoning. I even went looking for Anastasia, thought maybe she could talk him down…”
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I lean in.
“But what I found-”
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“Whatever it is,” she cuts in, panicked, “it can wait! Nothing’s more important than stopping this madness!” Just then, security finally drags
—
Akim and Dimitri apart — both red–faced, shouting slurs, shirts
rumpled like they’ve just wrestled a bear.
Her shoulders sag with relief. Colour floods back into her cheeks. She moves to rush toward her son.
—
I grab her arm – firm. Unmovable.
“Aunty,” I say, low and urgent. “You have to promise me something.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Don’t tell Akim. Not yet. It’ll destroy him.”
Her sobbing stills. I have her full attention now.
“Anastasia’s upstairs,” I murmur. “In bed.”
Pause. Let it land.
“With another man.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. I tilt my head, let the venom sweeten my tone.
“And I think you should call the police,” I give the necklace around her neck a subtle glance. “There were diamond jewelleries at the side of their bed that look just like the ones you usually have on… Aunty, the man- he looks like a criminal. I’m so scared.”
Her face drains of colour.
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With all the chaos still unfolding inside, no one notices when I slip out. I head for the front of Dimitri’s hotel to wait for my ride, heels clicking against the pavement.
–
It’s colder than usual. Not that it matters my phone starts ringing and warms me up just fine.
Mother.
Perfect. I answer, mostly because I want a reason to stay angry. And she delivers.
“Must you always be a disgrace?!” she screeches before I can say hello. “All I asked – all I asked was that you attend Anastasia’s
–
engagement party like a normal person! Meet a decent man! Smile, behave! And what do you do? You ruin everything! What did I do to deserve this? You’ll put me in the grave one day, I swear,!”
—
Oh, she’s mad mad — but not mad enough to yell in Russian. English is her scolding language when she wants to make sure I really feel it. Unfortunately for her, I’m fluent in “guilt trip.”
I close my eyes. Count to three. Then smile.
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