Page 71 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

And suddenly, it hits me. Since our wedding, he has never told me he loves me. Sure, we’ve made love several times, but he hasn’t made me a single promise. Not one.

As if sensing my doubts, Ruslan steps closer. His hands frame my face—gentle yet firm—forcing me to look at him.

"You know she doesn’t matter, right?"

His voice is low, almost fragile. He stands in front of me, motionless, as if waiting for a verdict. A traitorous tear slips free despite my efforts. I feel it burn along my cheek.

"How could I possibly know that, Ruslan?" My voice trembles more than I want it to.

"You were kissing her on our wedding day. And you always find an excuse to see her…"

I don’t finish the sentence. The words choke in my throat.

He closes his eyes for a moment, and I see his jaw tighten. When he opens them again, something has changed in his gaze—an unfamiliar sincerity, as if he’s laying his heart bare.

"Don’t you understand that it has always been you?" Each word seems to cost him.

"Even when I was playing a role, even when I had to pretend, you were the one I chose. There’s only you, Sophia."

"Then why won’t you tell me you love me? What’s stopping you, if it’s not your love for her?"

"Is that really what you think?" His voice cracks. "Do you think it doesn’t destroy me not to be able to say it? That it doesn’t kill me not to be able to say ‘I love you’? Fuck, Sophia—if I don’t say those words, it’s because I’m not worthy of you. I don’t deserve your love after what I’ve done to you. I feel like I no longer have the right to say them. But can’t you see that I’m dying from loving you? That you hold all the power over my heart, that a single word from you could destroy me—or make me the happiest man alive?"

He steps closer, his hand brushing my face with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the raw force of his words.

"So if you really want to know," he continues, his voice breaking, "I love you. Goddamn it, I love you more than I ever thought was possible."

I don’t push him away. I don’t have the strength anymore. His confession drops me to my knees, emotionally undone. My body melts against his. His mouth finds mine—hesitant at first, then with desperate urgency, as if he’s trying to make me understand through the kiss what his clumsy words cannot fully convey.

Slowly—very slowly—with a patience that disarms me, he undresses us despite his injury. I feel his uneven breath against my skin, the tension in his body as it fights through the pain. But he doesn’t stop. His gestures are achingly tender, every touch a silent promise.

When he makes love to me, it’s different. Not with the fierce intensity and wild sensuality that usually define us. This time it’s slow, almost painful in its gentleness. He never takes his eyes off mine, as if he needs to be sure that I see him, that I finally understand.

"I love you, Sophia. I have never loved anyone but you."

The words fall as we come together, and something inside me shatters—only to mend itself again.

Because I believe him.

Much later, our bodies are still entwined in the darkness. His hand traces absent-minded circles on my shoulder. I can feel him searching for words, struggling with something he needs to say but doesn’t know how.

"Stanford mistreats her." His voice is barely audible.

My breath catches. I lift myself slightly to look at him.

"What?"

"I saw the marks during dinner. On her wrists. On her neck, when she lifted her hair." He looks away, staring at the ceiling. "I used Natasha to get information. I won’t deny it. But I can’t… I can’t leave her there, knowing what he does to her."

My heart tightens painfully. The jealousy is still there—sharp, burning—but there’s something else now, too. Compassion. Guilt, perhaps.

I think of the woman I hated, the woman I envied, and force myself not to imagine… I close my eyes.

Ruslan carries so much weight on his shoulders. The weight of his choices, of his brutal world, of everyone he’s used or betrayed to survive. And Natasha is part of that burden.

"You feel responsible," I murmur. It isn’t a question.

"I am responsible," he corrects quietly. "I put her in that position. I manipulated her, used her like a pawn. And now—"