Chapter 15
851 Words
Angelica pov
I don’t tell anyone.
Not Nicko.
Not my mother.
Not even Elena.
If I stop to explain, I might stop altogether—and I can’t risk that.
I pack a small bag. Passport. Phone. Nothing else matters. My hands shake as I close the door to the house I ran to for safety, knowing I’m leaving it behind again.
This time, I’m not running away.
I’m running to him.
The flight feels endless. Every second stretches like punishment. My mind replays the image from the camera over and over—Alexander in his office, pale, exhausted, waiting without knowing what he’s waiting for.
Waiting for me.
When the plane lands in Moscow, I don’t breathe until my feet hit the ground. I don’t call ahead. I don’t ask permission.
I take a car straight to the mansion.
The gates open immediately.
Of course they do.
Everyone knows me here.
I walk through the house like a ghost, heart pounding so hard it hurts. Everything looks the same—but it feels different. Colder. Empty.
He’s not in his office.
“He’s upstairs,” a guard says quietly, like he already understands what this is.
I climb the stairs on shaking legs.
Outside the bedroom, I hear the shower.
Water running.
Steam seeping under the door.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I push the door open.
⸻
Alexander POV
The water is too hot.
I know that—but I don’t turn it down.
Pain is grounding. It reminds me I’m still here.
I’ve lost track of how many days it’s been. Everything blurs together—meetings I don’t remember, conversations I barely hear, nights that never really end because sleep doesn’t come.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
And every time I wake up, she’s not there.
The shower is the only place my thoughts quiet down. No phones. No voices. No city pressing in on me.
Just water.
I rest my hands against the wall, head bowed, eyes closed.
Then—
Arms slide around my waist.
Soft.
Warm.
Real.
I freeze.
My breath catches painfully in my chest.
This has happened before.
Dreams are cruel like that.
They give you exactly what you want, just long enough to break you when you wake up.
I don’t move.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t even breathe properly.
Because if I do, she’ll disappear.
Her forehead presses gently against my back.
Her hands tremble.
“Alex,” she whispers.
My name.
Not imagined.
Not distorted.
Not fading.
I suck in a sharp breath and grip the wall harder.
“No,” I murmur hoarsely. “I can’t do this again.”
She tightens her arms around me.
“I’m not a dream,” she says softly. “I swear.”
I turn slowly—afraid of breaking the moment.
And there she is.
Wet hair. Bare skin. Eyes shining with unshed tears and determination.
Alive.
Here.
My knees almost give out.
I reach for her like I’m afraid she’ll vanish if I don’t anchor her to me, my hands sliding to her face, her shoulders, her waist—anywhere I can touch.
“You’re real,” I breathe.
She nods, biting her lip. “I came back.”
I pull her against me hard, crushing her to my chest, my forehead pressing into her hair as everything I’ve been holding back crashes over me at once.
“I didn’t come to take,” she says quickly, voice muffled against my skin. “I came to choose.”
I close my eyes.
“Angelica,” I whisper, broken. “I didn’t follow you because I thought that’s what you needed.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “And I needed to know you’d let me go.”
The water keeps running around us, steam filling the space, but the world feels painfully still.
“I saw you,” she admits. “In your office.”
My breath stutters. “Ivan.”
“I thought I was protecting myself,” she says. “But I was just scared.”
I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. “I never chose her. There was never a choice.”
“I know,” she says. “I know now.”
Silence stretches between us—fragile, sacred.
I press my forehead to hers.
“I can’t promise I won’t be afraid again,” she whispers.
“I can’t promise I won’t be,” I answer.
“But we can choose each other anyway,” she says.
I nod once.
“Yes.”
I pull her back into my arms, this time gentler, reverent. She fits against me like she always did—like she always will.
For the first time in weeks, the weight on my chest eases.
She came back.
Not because she was taken.
Not because she was forced.
But because she chose me.
And that—more than power, more than control, more than obsession—
Is the thing that finally makes me believe I might not lose her again.
- Writer
