One hundred reasons to leave

Chapter 6

The man leaves the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I wrap myself in his shirt, greedily inhaling the air near the collar. There’s barely any scent of cologne. Just a faint aroma of cigarettes and the man himself. He smells so good that I almost want to breathe nothing but that.

I lie down on the bed and curl up in a foetal position — it makes the pain feel less intense. I close my eyes and pull the blanket over me. It feels so pleasantly cool against my bare skin, gradually warming up. I never thought I’d be so happy just to lie in a clean bed.

For the first time, I feel completely safe. I know for sure the man won’t harm me. Most likely, I’m not even interesting to him as a woman… after all, he reacted calmly to my nudity. He looked at me, yes, but more at my bruises than at my curves and intimate areas. That made me happy and sad at the same time. As a man, I liked him. He has handsome features, and he’s not a jerk… at least, it seems so. That’s my short list of requirements!

I chuckled at my own thoughts. None of this matters… because soon I’ll be free! To live on my own, like a cat.

With these thoughts, I didn’t notice how I fell asleep.

I woke up to the bright rays of the morning sun. Judging by its position, it was about six in the morning — but I didn’t want to sleep anymore.

I took a shower and decided to make breakfast for Roma, as a way to thank him somehow.

In the kitchen, I found everything I needed and decided to make pancakes, an omelette, and a light salad. I don’t know what he likes, but I hope at least something will appeal to him.

“Yes, have them check the containers. I’ll be there soon,” I heard — and the man came around the corner. He was holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, fastening cufflinks on his shirt with one hand. When he saw me and the set table, he stopped abruptly.

“I’ll call back,” he said, put the phone in his pocket, and gave me an appraising look.

“Good morning…” I mumbled with a slight smile.

“Good morning. Why are you up so early?” He walked past me to the coffee machine.

“I don’t know… I got enough sleep. I decided to make you breakfast,” I said. The man chuckled.

“Want some coffee?” he asked, turning toward me.

I nodded hastily.

“With plenty of cream, if possible,” I said, slowly sitting down at the table. I grimaced at the pain in my back and lower abdomen.

“Why aren’t you taking painkillers?” He placed a mug of coffee in front of me, sat down opposite, and looked at me intently.

“I don’t want to forget even for a moment what he did,” I said truthfully.

“But you’re suffering,” he said, rolling up a thin pancake. There wasn’t a trace of pity in his tone, and that really won me over. He wasn’t talking to me like a victim. He wasn’t pitying or sympathising — just stating facts.

“I am suffering. But it helps me remember what he did to me. When my parents beat me, the pain would go away after a couple of days, and I’d forget what happened. I knew I’d been beaten, I knew it hurt and was upsetting, but I couldn’t remember the details,” I said. As he listened, the man gripped his mug so hard I heard the glass crack.

“When everything’s settled, what will you do? Where will you go?” he suddenly asked, calming down. But I could tell his calmness was just a mask.

I shrugged ambiguously.

“My parents took my documents from the university… they said I don’t need to study anymore, and don’t have time anyway, since I ‘must bear heirs’…” I unconsciously mimicked my mother’s annoying voice. The man chuckled, then turned serious again.

I sighed heavily.

“I’ll try to find a job… try to earn money and get back into university. Or I’ll leave here and try to build a life in another city. That’s what I’ll most likely do.”

“I can get you back into university right now,” he said. I looked up at the man. Judging by his serious expression, he wasn’t joking. “What were you studying?”

“Law,” I said uncertainly.

“Excellent. You’ll be reinstated next Monday. I need your passport,” he said, took out his phone, and started typing a message to someone.

“There’s no need… I’ll manage on my own. You’ve already helped me so much,” I said.

“That’s not up for discussion,” he said in a commanding tone, finished his coffee, and got up from the table. “Thank you for breakfast — it was very tasty. You can do whatever you like; there’s no one in the house except you and the security.” He turned and left the kitchen. I just kept looking after him.

I finished my portion and cleared the table. I decided I should lie down for a bit — the pain in my rib was becoming unbearable.

In the room, I found a pile of bags with new clothes from well‑known brands. I was afraid to even imagine how much money he’d spent on this. And why splurge on a stranger like that?

I changed into a loose tracksuit and lay down on the bed. I took out my phone and found a thousand messages and missed calls from my parents and my “husband”.

> “I’ll find and kill you. Akimov won’t help you. He’s just delaying the inevitable.”

A shudder ran through me at what I saw. Akimov… that’s the crime boss of Moscow and the entire Moscow region. Not‑so‑pleasant rumours circulate about him, too. They say he buries traitors alive. Everyone fears and respects him.

Now I understood why Moroz had groveled before Roman. And I, foolish me, had talked back to him…

“Oh God… who have I gotten involved with…”

I kept reading messages from my parents:

> “Come back to your husband, you fool!”

> “You’ve put us in a terrible position! Dad’s lost everything, now we’re in poverty! Congratulations — you’ve achieved your goal. Never thought you’d grow up so selfish! You have no parents now. Ungrateful. We raised you, fed you, clothed you — and this is how you repay us?”

> “b***h,” — that was the last message from my mom, sent an hour ago.

Tears of resentment welled up in my eyes. Why? Why had they done this to me, and now blamed me for running away from a sadist?!

I blocked my parents’ and Moroz’s numbers. I didn’t delete the messages — I kept them, so to speak, as a keepsake. If I ever decide to forgive them, I’ll reread them and instantly change my mind.

I scrolled through the news feed to distract myself somehow. My wedding photo caught my eye. Above it read: **“Breaking News! The newlywed wife of Ruslan Morozov cheated on her husband the very next day and ran off with her lover… more details…”**

In the comments, people were calling me a w***e and saying what they’d do if they saw me on the street…

What a horror… Now I can’t even leave the house. Let alone think about university.