Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
None of this belongs to me. Not the house, not the man, not even the silence. I don't belong here. I can't stay, knowing that the only thing he needs to make his world right is the one thing I can't give him.
My hands tremble as I pack the very few things I own and zip the bag halfway. The book of poems lies on top. My throat gets tight.
And all I loved—I loved alone.
My stupid tears don’t ask permission; they just come of their own accord.
I go downstairs and walk to the pantry. And for some reason, I can't do it. I can't think of what I need, what I have to say, where I could go.
We're not married. I'm not his wife.
All the other women of the Bratva, they're married. And that means something to these men.
I’m just… me.
I can't bear him a child. I have nothing to bring to the table.
And he says he owns me.
But what does that mean in the greater scheme of things?
Nothing.
Nothing.
The thought of leaving him feels like I'm breaking my own heart. I've never felt understood like I do with him. I've never wanted someone the way I want him. My life went on before him, but now… for the first time ever, I had begun to hope.
And hope is a beautiful thing.
But when I go downstairs, I'm not alone.
The kitchen lights are dim. I can still smell the lingering scent of the citrus cleaner I used to wipe down the bathroom. The back window is cracked open, and a draft makes the kitchen curtain flutter.
I shiver, then freeze. My heart kicks into my throat.
I can feel the presence of someone else. It can’t be someone who shouldn’t be here; the doors are locked, and security’s here. I didn’t hear anyone breaking in.
"M-Matvei?" I call out, but it's impossible. He can't be home yet unless he teleported. I just spoke with him on the phone—he said he was still an hour away.
There's no way—
Oh, shit.
No.
Not this again.
I slowly turn.
“Irma?”
Irma stands near the pantry, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like she’s been waiting for this. She wears one of her signature too-tight sweaters and blinding lipstick.
I smile sweetly. "Did you run out of grocery money again? Looking for a free meal? Sorry to tell you that the only thing Matvei and I cooked last night was meth, and there's none left."
She glares.
“Ha-ha. Just kidding. It was weed.”
His mother narrows her eyes at me.
"Why do you hate me?" she asks.
My need to run is quickly forgotten. I'm not leaving her in this house unsupervised.
"I never did anything to you," his mother says, obviously still trying to keep my attention on her. And then she keeps talking—blah, blah, blah—but I tune her out.
And then I realize something that sends a chill down my spine.
His parents don't have keys to this house anymore.
Matvei changed the locks.
"How did you get in here?"
"I have a key," his mother says.
"No, you don't. He changed those locks."
"Why?" his mother snaps. "I've had a key to his house since he bought it… until you came on the scene." Her voice rises in pitch, in volume.
"Because he didn't want you walking in while he was fucking me in the living room. Does that make you feel better?"
"Honey, you're just someone he’s wasting his time on.”
“It’s kinda gross how jealous you are.”
Her voice is so smug, so sure. "He doesn't want you. Don't you think if he wanted you, he would've married you, like the rest of them? Done this the right way instead of bringing you back here like you were some kind of cheap whore?"
It stings.
I tell myself not to listen, not to pay attention.
I'm stronger than this.
But I already feel so low, so useless.
I can't be anything for him.
"You should run," she says coldly, cruelly. "You should get out of here while you still can."
“You hate me because he picked me over you,” I say, my voice low.
“He didn’t pick you,” she snarls. “You’re just the body he’s fucking while he waits for someone better.”
My heart lurches, but I push through. She’s trying to hurt me, trying to cause me pain.
"You hate him for what he did to your son, but don't you know how he's gone out of his way to be loyal to you? Even after everything you've done to him?"
I hate them.
I hate them so much.
"You stupid little whore," his mother hisses, real hatred gleaming in her eyes. "All of them… they stole it. It should've been ours."
"What are you talking about? Stole what?” Is she delusional?
I shake my head.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I snap.
"Of course you don't," she sneers. "You're just a stupid little bitch who thinks she knows better."
The way she says it—so dismissive, so cold—something clicks in my mind.
I stare. No.
"You put him up to it," I whisper.