Chapter 7

Victor: POV

I woke up with my head pounding like it was being split open with a rusty ax. The light streaming through the unfamiliar hotel room window felt like needles in my eyes. When I realized I wasn't alone, a wave of dread washed over me.

Natalia was lying next to me, wearing nothing but a silky nightgown.

"Fuck," I muttered, sitting up too quickly. The room spun.

"Morning, Viktor," Natalia said, her voice grating against my hangover.

"What happened last night?" I demanded.

She laughed. "Nothing happened. You were too drunk to do anything even if I wanted to."

Relief flooded through me, quickly followed by embarrassment.

"You talked about your wife all night," she said. "How much you miss her, how you can't accept that she left..."

I closed my eyes. Vera. Where are you?

Natalia shifted closer, her perfume overwhelming in the close quarters. "You know," she murmured, trailing a finger down my chest, "just because nothing happened last night doesn't mean nothing can happen now."

I opened my eyes to find her face inches from mine, her lips parted in invitation. For a fleeting moment, I considered it. Perhaps physical distraction would numb the constant ache in my chest.

But then Vera's face flashed in my mind—her shy smile, her downcast eyes when I spoke harshly to her. The guilt was immediate and crushing.

I grasped Natalia's wrist, stopping her wandering hand. "No way."

Her expression hardened momentarily before softening into practiced disappointment. "Still hung up on your dead wife?" She sighed dramatically, pulling away. "Such devotion. Who would have thought the cold Viktor Korsolov had such a sentimental heart?"

"Get dressed," I said, standing up despite my throbbing head. "Then get out.”

She pouted but complied, disappearing into the bathroom. I heard the shower start as I stood at the window, staring out at Moscow without really seeing it.

Natalia told me she had returned hoping to rekindle our relationship, but seeing my reaction to Vera's disappearance had changed her plans. I barely listened, nodding occasionally, my mind elsewhere. I didn't notice the calculating glint in her eyes or catch her whispered thought: Your wife is dead. You'll be mine eventually.

My grandfather, Erik Korsolov, came to see me days later. His weathered face looked a decade older as he stood in my office, shoulders stooped with grief.

"Is it true?" he asked, his voice breaking.

I pressed my lips together, unable to respond.

"We should hold a funeral," he said after a long silence. "She deserves that respect."

"She's not dead," I insisted, but my voice lacked conviction. Days had passed with no word from her. Despite my relentless searching, there was no trace of Vera anywhere.

Where are you? You really died? These questions tormented me day and night.

As each day passed without news, a cold certainty began to settle in my chest. Maybe she really was gone.

"Viktor," my grandfather said softly, placing his hand on my shoulder, "No matter how you hate her before, you have to make her appear decent after she died."

Something broke inside me. "Fine," I whispered.

Moscow's sky hung low and gray on the day of the funeral, as if the heavens themselves mourned Vera's passing. The cemetery stood solemn and still, bare trees reaching toward the colorless sky like skeletal fingers. A biting wind carried the scent of impending snow and the faint perfume of funeral flowers.

Black-clad figures surrounded the empty casket, their breath forming small clouds in the cold air. Moscow's elite had turned out in droves, their faces set in appropriate expressions of sorrow, though most had barely known Vera. The whispered conversations died as I approached.

The polished mahogany of the casket gleamed under the weak sunlight. An arrangement of white lilies rested on top – Vera's favorite flowers. I'd remembered that, at least.

I stood rigidly at the graveside, my face a frozen mask hiding the storm within. This is wrong. She's not in there. She can't be gone. My hands clenched involuntarily at my sides, knuckles white with strain.

Marina dabbed at her eyes with a black lace handkerchief. "Poor dear," she sobbed, her voice carrying just enough to be heard by those nearby. "Such a tragedy."

Through my peripheral vision, I caught her exchanging a quick glance with Evgeny. Something passed between them—a flash of satisfaction, perhaps—but I was too consumed by my own grief to care.

The priest's words echoed hollow against the headstones. The final act of a marriage that had been nothing but a cruel façade—or so I had convinced myself until it was too late.

My grandfather placed his weathered hand on my shoulder. His eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were clouded with genuine sorrow. "Vera," he said, looking at the casket, "be at peace wherever you are."

The guests murmured platitudes as they filed past me.

"She was so young, but..."

"Such a shame." "

Time heals all wounds."

"He'll find someone else."

They didn't know. They couldn't understand what I'd lost. What I'd thrown away with both hands.

As the casket was lowered into the ground, I felt part of myself descending with it. The finality of it crushed something vital inside me.

I'm sorry, Vera. I'm so fucking sorry. I never told you how much you meant to me. How you brought life into my cold home. How your smile was the only bright spot in my day. And now it's too late.

Six years later - Moscow

I had almost accepted it by then. The search teams never found her body, which kept a flicker of hope alive in me for years. But I had spent six years searching for her, using every resource at my disposal, and found nothing.

I buried myself in work. It was the only thing that kept me sane. From dawn until long past midnight, I immersed myself in contracts, negotiations, and ruthless business deals. I had expanded Korsolov Energy Group beyond what even my grandfather thought possible.

Mikhail worried about me. "You need to slow down," he said at least once a week. "Take a vacation. Meet someone new."

I always said,“No need.”

That was my punishment: to live with what I'd done.

St. Petersburg

A slender figure with elegant posture walked into a jewelry design studio. Employees greeted her with respect and admiration as she passed.

"Good morning, Ms. Pierce."