Larissa didn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of Lukyan's breathing beside her. He had fallen asleep hours ago, like he always did—calm, unmoved, unreadable.
But she couldn't ignore the weight of his words.
"Will you miss me?"
It was the first time he'd ever asked her something like that. The first time he had dared to suggest that maybe—just maybe—what they had wasn't entirely fake.
And that terrified her.
She rolled over, turning her back to him, and stared at the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains.
Two years.
She had survived eight.
Two more shouldn't feel this hard.
The next morning, Lukyan was gone before sunrise. As usual.
She found a note on the kitchen counter, written in his clean, clinical handwriting.
Morning surgery. Dinner tonight? —L.
Dinner?
They only shared meals when the children were present or when the nanny insisted on "family bonding time."
Larissa read the note twice, then shoved it into the trash.
She didn't have time for games.
At work, she buried herself in briefs and negotiations. Her office downtown was far from the cold silence of their estate—here, she was respected, feared, admired. The youngest partner in a top-tier firm. A woman who didn't flinch in court, didn't break under pressure, and certainly didn't lose sleep over possessive husbands.
Except… she did now.
Because her phone buzzed at exactly 12:01 p.m.
Did you eat? —L.
Larissa stared at the message, lips tightening.
He had never texted her in the middle of the day unless it was about the children or emergencies.
She didn't reply.
Two hours later, a bouquet of blood-red roses arrived at the office.
No card.
But she didn't need one.
Her assistant peeked in, eyes wide. "Another admirer?"
Larissa forced a polite smile. "Something like that."
That evening, when she returned home, the scent of roasted garlic and rosemary filled the air.
The dining room was softly lit. Candles flickered. Wine was already poured.
And Lukyan stood at the head of the table, no tie, sleeves rolled up, like he belonged in this life. Like he wasn't the same man who had once told her, "This marriage is a transaction. Nothing more."
She paused at the doorway.
"This is unnecessary," she said.
He didn't look at her. "Sit, Larissa."
She hesitated.
But she sat.
Dinner was quiet at first. Their three children had already eaten and been tucked in by the nanny, leaving them alone in the warm silence.
Halfway through the meal, Lukyan finally spoke.
"You never answered my text."
She sipped her wine. "I was busy."
"You didn't thank me for the flowers."
"I didn't ask for them."
He set his fork down, the clink of metal on china sharper than it should've been.
"You're angry because I'm trying now."
Her eyes met his. Calm. Cold. But underneath, a storm brewed.
"I'm confused," she admitted. "You ignored me for eight years. What changed?"
Lukyan didn't answer right away.
Instead, he stood slowly, walking around the table until he stopped beside her chair.
He leaned down, one hand on the backrest, the other on the table, trapping her again.
"I thought I could keep my distance," he said quietly. "That I wouldn't care when you left."
His voice lowered, like a confession and a threat all at once.
"But now the thought of you walking away—with my children, from my home, from me—makes me want to burn everything down."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Don't," she whispered.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this harder than it already is."
Lukyan bent closer, his breath brushing her cheek.
"I haven't even started yet."