One hundred reasons to leave

Chapter 8

Akimov arrived late in the evening. During the day, I’d managed to clean the whole house and prepare dinner.

As soon as I saw his car through the window, I immediately jumped to my feet and ran to meet him. The online harassment I’d been facing all day wouldn’t leave me in peace. I wanted to tell this man about it and ask him not to reinstate me at the university.

When the man entered the house, I was already waiting for him by the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” he asked right away, looking me up and down. I was wearing the same tracksuit I’d had on all day.

“I wanted to ask you not to reinstate me at the university,” I said without formalities, getting straight to the point.

“How do you know they’re harassing you online?” It was foolish to think that Akimov himself wasn’t already aware of what was going on.

“My phone…” I replied briefly. Meanwhile, the man had already taken off his shoes and jacket.

“Got it. I’ll go change — did you cook something, or should we order food?”

I quickly nodded in response.

“What? You cooked?” he smirked.

“Yes.”

“Then set the table — I’ll go change. We need to talk…”

“About what?”

“You’ll find out.”

I headed quickly to the kitchen and started reheating the vegetable stew, steak, and dressing the salad with oil.

The man came back too quickly. He was wearing a black T‑shirt and sweatpants. In those clothes, he seemed somehow homely, familiar to me…

He helped set the table and took out a bottle of whiskey.

“Will you have some? Or maybe wine?”

“No. Whiskey,” I said. I sensed the conversation wouldn’t be a pleasant one.

The man poured the amber liquid into the glasses and drank it down in one gulp, silently, without a toast. I did the same. A pleasant bitterness burned my throat, and warmth spread through my chest.

Akimov silently took a velvet box out of his pocket and pushed it toward me. I glanced at the man in surprise.

“What is this?”

“A ring. An engagement ring,” he replied briefly, cutting his meat with a knife.

I opened the box — an elegant ring with a large ruby sat inside. An incredibly beautiful piece of jewellery… I raised a bewildered look to the man.

“What does this mean?” I asked quietly.

“You’ll be my fiancée,” he said. My heart skipped a beat. Fiancée? “Temporarily. Until everything calms down. As long as you’re my woman, no one will dare even utter a word against you. Then we’ll part ways amicably somehow. We’ll figure something out… Put it on and don’t take it off.” The last sentence sounded like an order.

“It’s too expensive… I’m afraid I’ll lose it.” The man put down his cutlery, got up from the table, and came close. He crouched down, took the ring, and put it on my right ring finger. He raised his head and looked into my eyes.

“It’s yours. If you lose it, I’ll buy another one,” he said briefly, stood up without taking his eyes off my face, and sat back down. I hadn’t even had time to fully process what had just happened.

“Have your parents called? Morozov?”

“Yes, but I didn’t pick up. Morozov texted that he’d kill me, and my parents said they no longer have a daughter,” I said coldly, as if it didn’t affect me at all. In reality, I’d spent the whole day crying from hurt.

Meanwhile, the man pursed his lips and poured more alcohol.

“He won’t lay a finger on you. In a couple of days, you’ll be officially divorced from him, and I’ll announce you as my fiancée.”

I chuckled.

“Then the rumours that I’m a w***e will definitely be confirmed…”

“No one will dare say a bad word about ‘my woman’,” he enunciated firmly and downed his glass in one gulp. I understood that the phrase “my woman” carried a rather superficial, not deep meaning. Everyone around would think that way, but in reality, things were much more complicated.

Silently, I swirled the liquid in my glass, watching it roll around.

“In a couple of days, we’ll need to go to the clinic and have the stitches removed from your cut,” he said in a casual tone. It felt like we’d had dinner together like this many times before, as if we’d known each other for a long time. It was so easy to talk and communicate with him.

“Right… I’d completely forgotten,” I said lazily. Then I drank the burning liquid in one gulp. My whole body relaxed, and my head spun a little.

“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked, glancing disapprovingly at my empty plate.

“Oh, I’ve already eaten today,” I said without thinking. The man’s brows furrowed.

“‘Today’ — when exactly?” he clarified, sounding displeased.

“This morning…” I replied more quietly. The man looked at me in disbelief, waiting for an explanation. “I eat once a day. My mother got me used to that a couple of months ago… She was afraid I wouldn’t please Morozov, since he likes thin women…”

“Eat,” he ordered, and I was glad to obey him. My parents weren’t around. Now I could listen to myself — and to Roma.

I didn’t reply, picked up the steak, and started devouring it hungrily, bite after bite. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten meat. I lost track of time, and when there was nothing left on the plate, I remembered where I was and with whom. I abruptly raised my head, wiping my lips with my hand.

The man was watching me with interest. Judging by his relaxed posture, he’d been watching me for a while.

“Sorry… I just…” The man didn’t let me finish.

“Hungry… You don’t need to do anything anymore just to please or appease someone. Once you leave this house, you’ll be on your own. It’s time to learn to make decisions based on your own desires and needs. It might sound scary, but trust me — being alone is even better than being with people who don’t care about you.” He got up from the table and started clearing his dishes. I jumped up too and followed his example.

We silently cleared the table and loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

My head was spinning a little from the alcohol, and my body felt unusually relaxed. We left the kitchen together. I stepped onto the stairs first; a few steps up, I realised I was losing my balance and started falling backward, flailing my arms, trying to grab the railing.

I mentally braced myself for the pain and prayed not to hit my head. But my expectations didn’t match reality. I found myself in a man’s arms, holding me tightly.

My back, where the cut was, burned. I hissed, trying to pull away.

“Shh…” he hissed soothingly, stroking my waist. I raised my head and met Roma’s darkened gaze. The man was breathing deeply and raggedly, studying my face.

“Does it hurt?” he asked in a hoarse voice. I just nodded in response, unable to tear my eyes away from his mesmerising blue eyes. Do eyes like that even exist in nature?

The man’s face slowly lowered toward mine, never breaking eye contact. At that moment, my heart started beating faster. I shifted my gaze to his lips, then back to his eyes, then to his lips again.

I understood where this was heading, but I didn’t want to stop or push him away. I’d think about the consequences later. I might regret it afterward, but right now, I wanted to feel him as close as possible.

Roma was practically breathing on my lips. I parted my lips; our breaths mingled, and then the man’s lips descended onto mine, gently pressing against them… Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. My heart pounded against my ribs. I breathed raggedly against his lips, in the pauses between kisses that shifted from tender to passionate and demanding.