Page 92 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

"Isabella's baby isn't mine."

I tightened my grip on my water glass.

He'd said the timing didn't match her travel schedule. He'd said the agreement was forged, the audio cut.

Each explanation tore down a wall. But behind it wasn't an exit. It was just another ruin.

"So it is all her fault?"

"No."

His answer hit me off balance.

"She forged the papers. She told the lies." His voice dropped, heavy. "But I gave her room. I didn't push her off me at the birthday party. I saw you walk out and I didn't go after you. I knew you were waiting for an explanation, and I still left you alone in the manor for days. She didn't do those things for me."

My fingers started to go numb.

Those were the words I'd wanted. Not excuses. Not orders. Just him seeing what he'd done. Now he saw it—just at the wrong time.

"Those days, I kept telling myself... if you came back and told me you chose me, I'd forgive you." My chest ached so hard I could barely breathe. "I made excuses for you. You and her had history. I should have understood. I shouldn't have made it hard for you."

His face drained, slowly, like the color got pulled out.

"I sharpened the blade you cut me with... then handed it right back to you."

"I don't deserve to ask you to forget."

"You don't even deserve to ask me to forgive you."

"I know."

"You don't." I set the glass down. "You think you can dig up the truth, shove Isabella out, buy my painting, say you are sorry, and rewrite the past. But the damage already happened. One sentence, one apology doesn't fix that."

"Then how do we fix it?"

"We don't."

My voice stayed steady.

Maybe giving up meant sitting across from the person you'd once loved and admitting he was too late.

"Give me a chance."

"I gave you too many chances."

"If you can forgive me, I'll do anything."

"Even if I make you get on your knees?"

"If that is what you want."

I looked at his straight-backed posture. This man had been raised on power. He didn't bow. Most people didn't even hold his gaze.

"Then get on your knees."

His chair scraped the floor.

Kiryan stood, walked around the table. His height blocked the light, and I tipped my head up on instinct. Then he dropped to one knee, expensive slacks meeting cold marble.