Page 48 of Twisted Addiction
He’s too invested in my freedom for it to be charity. What’s his endgame?
And—God help me—why did a small, treacherous part of me want to believe him?
By the time I slipped into my office, the mask of composure had begun to crack.
Elena’s desk sat just beyond a sheer curtain, a fragile divide between my false authority and her quiet diligence.
I sank into my chair, the leather sighing beneath me as I opened the divorce file again. The neat paragraphs blurred into rivers of ink.
Each clause was a blade—freedom offered in exchange for the ruin of my marriage.
What did I even feel for Dmitri anymore?
Affection? No. That had burned away long ago.
But something still tethered me to him—something darker, harder to name. Maybe it was the familiarity of his cruelty, the way he broke me and then pieced me back together, just enough to keep me breathing.
Or maybe it was nothing more than habit—this dangerous longing for the man he pretended not to be.
The truth pressed against my ribs like glass. I didn’t know if I wanted him gone... or wanted him to suffer.
My heart was a battlefield—duty warring with fury, grief colliding with something far more treacherous: the quiet, sick ache of wanting what I should despise.
A voice broke through the storm. “Ma’am?”
I blinked, the sound dragging me back to the present. “Yes?”
Elena’s tone was careful, almost amused. “My sister stopped by to say hi. She wants to meet you before she leaves.”
A pause. Then, with a hint of disbelief—“You’ll want to see her. She looks... almost exactly like you.”
I froze, her words cutting clean through the fog in my head.
Almost exactly like me.
Something about it sent a shiver through me—an old superstition whispered in my grandmother’s voice:If you ever meet your double, one of you won’t survive the year.
I blinked hard, pushing the thought away. “Your sister?”
I leaned forward, my voice sharper than intended. The polished mahogany desk suddenly felt like a barrier between me and something I couldn’t name. “And why would she just show up here—without informing me? This is a workplace, Elena, not a café for family visits.”
Through the sheer curtain that separated our desks, Elena’s silhouette stiffened. When she spoke, her tone had cooled, the deference thinning beneath quiet irritation. “My previous boss allowed it, ma’am. I’ll tell her to leave.”
Then, louder—just enough for the walls to catch her words—she called, “Seraphina, my boss doesn’t want to see you. We’ll meet at home.”
The name hung in the air like smoke.
Seraphina.
I froze, my pen hovering above the inventory spreadsheet glowing on my laptop. The sound of that name cut through me like glass.
My pulse stuttered; a cold sweat gathered along my spine. Seraphina didn’t exist. Giovanni had sworn to that—said she was a fabrication, a weapon Dmitri used to twist my mind.
Hadn’t he?
The memory of his certainty now clashed against the echo of Elena’s voice, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Logic and fear tangled in my chest, choking each other out. Was this just coincidence—or had one of Dmitri’s ghosts stepped, impossibly, into daylight?
I forced a breath, sharp and deliberate, pressing my palms against the desk until my trembling stilled. I couldn’t afford to unravel. Not today. Not when I was finally standing on my own, even if the ground still belonged to him.
