Chapter 6
Three weeks into the marriage, Greg came back.
Emma was in the garden with Lily when Alexander’s right-hand man, Pavel, appeared. His face was grave. “Mrs. Volkov. Your husband requests your presence in the study. Immediately.”
She found Alexander standing by the window, his phone in his hand. His expression was cold — the controlled mask of a man preparing for violence.
“Greg has been located,” he said without preamble. “He’s in Rio. He’s been spending the stolen money. He sent a message.”
“A message? To you?”
“To you.” He held out the phone. “It came through your sister’s phone. She forwarded it.”
Emma took the phone. The text was brief:
Emma, I know you married him. I’m sorry. I was scared. Tell him I’ll pay back what I can. Just don’t let him come after me.
She stared at the words. The man who had left her at the altar, who had used her as a shield while he fled, who had reduced her daughter to a “responsibility” — and now he was begging for mercy.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Alexander turned to face her. His eyes were dark. Unreadable. “That depends on what you want.”
“What I want?”
“He wronged you. Not just me. He humiliated you. He abandoned your daughter. If you want him to face consequences, I will ensure it. If you want mercy, I will consider it. But the choice is yours.”
Emma looked at the phone. She thought about the wedding. The empty space at the altar. The whispers. The tears she had cried in the cathedral bathroom. She thought about Lily, asking if Alex would make her cry like Greg did.
“I don’t want him hurt,” she said slowly. “But I want him to know that he didn’t win. He didn’t destroy me. He made me stronger.”
Alexander studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Then that’s what he’ll know.”
He made a single call. The message was simple: Greg would be allowed to keep his freedom, but the stolen money would be recovered. All of it. And he would sign a document acknowledging that Emma Lawson — now Emma Volkov — bore no responsibility for his debts. In exchange, Alexander’s men would not pursue him further.
Emma listened as he gave the instructions. She felt something shift inside her. Not forgiveness. Closure.
That night, she found Alexander in the library. He was sitting by the fire, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring into the flames. She sat across from him.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For giving me the choice. For not treating me like a possession.”
He looked at her. “I told you. You’re not a possession.”
“I know. But I needed to see it.”
The fire crackled between them. After a long moment, she spoke again.
“I want to know more about you. The real you. Not the mafia boss. The man who promised my daughter he would come to her tea parties.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he set down his glass. “I was born in Moscow. My father was a businessman. My mother was a teacher. When I was twelve, my father’s competitors decided to send a message. They killed my mother. My father killed them. Then he built an empire so no one could ever touch us again.”
“And you followed him.”
“I became him.” His voice was flat. “I told myself it was to protect the people I loved. But I had forgotten how to love. I had forgotten how to let anyone close enough to protect.”
May you like
“Until me.”
He looked at her. “Until you.”
