Page 16 of Twisted Addiction
The words hit me like a blow, both terrifying and electric. Divorce. The very thing Dmitri had said was impossible.
Here was his brother, offering it like a lifeline—only it didn’t feel like rescue. It felt like bait.
Heat licked at the base of my throat—hope, sudden and dangerous.
He leaned closer, voice low enough that the words felt private, not theatrical.
“You think you’re the first? You’re not. I’ve freed women tied to worse men than Dmitri. One belonged to the Orlovs—their heir nearly killed her when she asked for a divorce. She’s alive now because I built her case piece by piece until even his father couldn’t save him. Another was married into the Morozov family. Everyone swore she’d disappear if she tried to fight. Instead, she walked out of court with her freedom signed, sealed, protected.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed sharp. “The question is—do you trust me enough to let me?”
The offer dangled between us like a live wire. Part of me wanted to snatch it and run. Part of me wanted to burn it where it sat.
A server appeared, summoned by a subtle gesture from Alexei, setting down plates of simple yet exquisite dishes: bruschetta topped with ripe tomatoes and basil, a small bowl of creamy risotto with parmesan shavings, and a side of grilled vegetables drizzled with balsamic glaze.
The food was a distraction, but my mind was racing. I picked at the bruschetta, the flavors bursting on my tongue as I mulled over his offer.
It was too generous.
Alexei was a mafia man, just like Dmitri, and trust wasn’t a currency I could afford to spend lightly in this world.
Yes, I longed to return to New York, to reunite with my family, who’d been torn from me when I was dragged into this life.
But divorce? The word sat heavy in my chest, a stone I wasn’t sure I wanted to lift.
Despite everything—Dmitri’s cruelty, his body-shaming, those gut-wrenching texts, his months of abandonment while I carried his child—the thought of severing ties with him didn’t feel right. Why? I hated him, didn’t I?
“What’s the catch?” I asked, setting down my fork and pinning him with a hard stare.
He chuckled, leaning back, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “You may find it hard to believe, but I want nothing in return. I just want to help an unsatisfied woman trapped in a life she didn’t choose.”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “No, I’m smarter than that. No one helps anyone for free. Kindness isn’t exactly a trait that thrives in this world.”
His gaze locked onto mine, intense and unwavering, as if he could see straight through to my soul. “Penelope,” he said softly, almost tenderly, “I’m not like him.”
I held his gaze, refusing to look away, searching for the lie in his eyes but finding none. “I should leave.” I said abruptly, pushing my chair back.
“We’re not done,” he replied, his tone unyielding, but not raised.
“Oh, we are,” I shot back, pulse roaring in my ears. “If there’s one thing life’s taught me, it’s never to take help from strangers. You may share his blood, but you’re nothing to me. And if you think I’ll let another stranger play hero, you’ve misjudged me completely.”
I turned to go, but his voice followed, calm and cutting.
“Under our law, only a wife or a recognized mistress can bear Dmitri’s heir. And you...” his eyes flicked over me, sharp as a blade, “...you haven’t given him one. He won’t take a mistress either—not with how the underworld whispers about his obsession with you. That means his bloodline ends with you. No heir, no throne. When that happens, Dmitri forfeits his claim—and I take his place. So don’t mistake my proposal for kindness. Your divorce is just... mutually beneficial.”
Still, I didn’t sit. I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. I took two deliberate steps away, spine straight.
Behind me, his parting words trailed like smoke. “Call when you decide. Freedom has a way of making women braver than they think.”
I reached the door and pulled it open, the cool evening air slapping my face like a wake-up call.
Without looking back, I crossed the lot, climbed into the SUV, and started the engine.
The drive back to the mansion blurred, my chest heavy with unspoken dread. Only when I stepped inside, the oak door shutting with a final thud behind me, did Alexei’s voice fade—and the crushing weight of my reality crashed down harder.
I sank onto the couch, my mind replaying Dr. Rossi’s diagnosis:a bicornuate uterus, a malformed womb that couldn’t sustain a pregnancy, not this one, not any.
The dream of holding my own child—of feeling a small hand curl around my finger, of being more than just someone’swife, someone’s pawn—had always been a secret, stubborn light inside me. Tonight, it guttered low, threatened by biology.
