Chapter 6

Victor: POV

I threw back another shot of whiskey, welcoming the burn as it slid down my throat. The noise of the bar around me faded into a dull hum. I needed this—needed to wash away the memory of dinner with Natalia and her persistent advances.

"You love her?" she had asked, leaning across the table. "You gave so much for me. Weren't you forced to marry her because you couldn't defy your grandfather's orders?"

Mikhail slid onto the stool beside me, eyeing the collection of empty glasses. "Celebrating something?"

"Nope." I muttered, not wanting to discuss Natalia.

My phone rang. Marina's name flashed on the screen.

"What is it?" I snapped.

"Viktor..." Marina's voice trembled. "Vera's gone."

The world tilted beneath me. "What do you mean, 'gone'?"

"She's not at home. Her passport, her clothes—they're missing. She's left."

I ended the call, turning to Mikhai with grim expression. "Vera's left. I need you to find her."

Mikhail nodded, immediately pulling out his phone and stepping away to make calls.

Left? Why would she leave? The answer came immediately: because of how I'd treated her. Because of what I'd said that morning. Because of everything I'd done for the past three years.

Mikhail returned fifteen minutes later, his expression grim.

"She boarded a flight to London about an hour ago."

I nodded slowly. "Book me on the next flight. I'll bring her back."

"Viktor..." Mikhail's voice was unusually hesitant. He glanced at the television mounted above the bar.

I followed his gaze. The news ticker scrolled across the bottom of the screen: "BREAKING: Flight 1824 to London crashes during border crossing attempt. No survivors expected."

"What flight was she on?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears.

Mikhail swallowed. "1824."

The glass slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor. My legs wouldn't hold me anymore. I stumbled backward, colliding with a table. Glasses toppled. People turned to stare.

What I didn't know was that Vera had actually given her ticket to an elderly couple who urgently needed to fly directly to London to visit their newly born great-granddaughter. Vera accepted their offer to take a flight with a layover in Saint Petersburg, thus avoiding the accident.

I slid to the floor, my back against the bar. My hands covered my face as the first sob tore through me—a sound so raw and foreign that I barely recognized it as my own.

"She can't be gone," I whispered. "She loved me. How could she leave? How could she die before I found her?"

A few of my men who had been stationed around the bar approached.

"Why are you crying over her?" one of them asked. "I thought you hated your wife."

"Yeah," another added. "Isn't this better? I mean, the accident is terrible, but you're free now."

I looked up at them, vision blurred with tears I couldn't stop. "Get out. All of you."

Mikhail remained, signaling the bartender for water. "I've never seen you like this over a woman."

"She wasn't just a woman," I whispered. "She was my wife."

I don't know how many more drinks I had after that. At some point, Mikhail said something about needing to use the bathroom.

"Don't move," he ordered. "I'll be right back."

"Viktor?"

A familiar voice called out. A woman approached with a perfume that was too sweet. I blinked, trying to focus.

"Natalia?" My voice sounded slurred.

"What happened to you?" She sat beside me, closer than necessary. "I've never seen you like this."

I tried to speak but only managed a groan. Vera. Plane. Crash. Gone.

"You need to get out of here," Natalia said. "The press would have a field day seeing the great Viktor Korsolov falling apart in public."

"Come on," she urged, sliding her arm around my waist. "My hotel is just down the street."

Natalia guided me through the back exit. The cold night air hit my face, but it didn't clear my head.

The hotel lobby was a blur. A private elevator. A door opening into a suite that reeked of Natalia's perfume.

"Sit," she commanded, guiding me to a couch. "I'll get you some water."

I collapsed onto the cushions. I closed my eyes, and immediately Vera's face appeared. Her soft smile. The way she'd look down when I entered a room, afraid to meet my gaze.

"Vera," I whispered, the pain surging fresh.

"You look terrible," Natalia said, sitting too close beside me. "What happened tonight?"

"She's gone."

"Who's gone?"

"Vera. My wife. Her plane crashed. No survivors."

Natalia's expression shifted—surprise, then something else I couldn't quite read. "Oh, Viktor. I'm so sorry."

Her hand found mine, squeezing gently. The gesture should have been comforting, but it felt wrong. Not the hand I wanted.

"I need to go," I mumbled, trying to stand.

"You can barely walk," Natalia objected, pushing me back down. "Stay here tonight."

I slumped back, too exhausted and drunk to argue. I felt myself sliding sideways until my head rested on Natalia's lap.

Her fingers stroked my hair. "It's going to be alright. I'm here for you now."

I closed my eyes, too far gone to push her away. The memories came unbidden, washing over me in my drunken haze.

I remember the first time I saw Vera. My grandfather introducing the shy, beautiful girl who had helped the old man during a health crisis. I was suspicious, certain she was just another gold-digger.

"She's pure-hearted," my grandfather had insisted. "Not like that model you were chasing."

I'd sneered. "Pure-hearted women don't exist, especially not around wealth."

On our wedding day, she'd been breathtaking in white, her green eyes luminous, her smile nervous but genuine. For a moment, I'd forgotten my resentment, before quickly reinforcing my walls.

During our marriage life, her quiet presence gradually transforming the sterile mansion into something warmer. The meals she prepared, despite my dismissal of her efforts.

"I didn't ask you to cook," I'd say coldly, even as I cleared my plate.

"I know," she'd reply softly. "But I wanted to."

"I was so cruel to her," I whispered as I punched my chest, barely aware I was speaking aloud.

Natalia soothed. "Don't torture yourself."

But I deserved torture. I deserved worse. I'd pushed away the only person who had ever truly cared for me, not for my money or power, but for me.

"I never told her," I mumbled, the alcohol loosening my tongue. "I was afraid to admit it, even to myself."

"Told her what?" Natalia's voice seemed far away.

"That I loved her." The truth I'd been denying crashed over me: I'd fallen in love with my wife. Somewhere between her soft "good mornings" and the way she'd flinch when I entered a room, between her attempts to please me and her quiet dignity when I rejected her efforts—I'd fallen in love.

I felt Natalia's hand pause in my hair. "You loved her?"

I gradually couldn't hear what she was saying anymore, collapsed onto the bed, and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning, I found that my upper body was bare, and my pants had been changed. I sat up, startled, then looked at Natalia lying beside me. "We didn't... do anything, did we?"