Page 62 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Better,” I admit.

He nods, seeming to believe me. “Your medication is on the way. I sent one of my men to pick it up.”

“I don’t want medication anymore.”

“They control the headaches and the dizziness,” he says.

“How do you know?”

“I looked it up.” He leans against the fireplace. “I looked up a lot of things in the last hour.”

“Oh,” I say, studying the tension in his shoulders. “Lourdes told me there’s a video of us,” I say carefully, looking for regret in his eyes. “Can I see it?”

“Of course.” Without missing a beat, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He taps the screen a few times and then holds it out to me. “Just press play.”

I take it with shaking hands, knowing nothing will be the same after I watch this.

Chapter 18

Kirill - Five Years Ago

My fingers closed around the ring in my pocket as I stepped out of the car. The late-afternoon chill bit through my coat in a way that felt deserved for how I treated Sandrine. I crossed into the park with bare branches and gravel slick with frost. At the far end of the pathway, near the metal swings that creaked, she stood waiting.

Even from a distance, I could see the tension in her posture. Her arms were folded protectively across her chest, bracing for impact. The sight of her distress twisted my stomach to a raw, deep ache. She had every right to look at me with anger after the way I’d spoken to her with cruelty in my voice last week.

Fear and pride and the shadow of my father’s threats turned my words into weapons when she’d come to me with the sobbing confession that she was carrying my child.

And I said some awful things to her.

She left me, saying she never wanted to see me again. It took a hot minute, but I came to my senses. Then call after call convinced her to hear me out. That’s what she’s expecting now. More of an explanation of why I can’t be part of this child’s life.

A small smile crept across my mouth, thinking of the surprise she’d get when I tell her I was wrong. So wrong.

I moved toward her with deliberate steps, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes.

When she turned her head and saw me approaching, her expression hardened further. Even with her lips pressed into a thin line, she was still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Even angry, even guarded, even looking at me like she hated me.

The pale green of her coat struck me with the memory of the night I met her, when she was wearing a green dress. The night that changed my life.

“Thank you for coming,” I said when I got within earshot and knew she could hear me. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“You made your position very clear last week.” She exhaled slowly, like she was so tired of my bullshit. “Say what you came to say. My position is still clear. I’m having this baby.”

“I never intended for you to—” I stopped, unable to finish that sentence.

Her gaze moved over me, searching and wary. She was trying to decide which version of me had shown up that day. The man who’d loved her and wanted to fight for her, or the man who had made her feel like a worthless burden to my crown.

“Get on with it.” Her usually sweet voice sounded edged with brittle hatred.

It was what I deserved. Then slowly, I reached into my pocket.

“I was wrong,” I said, the admission unfamiliar because I never backed down. “About everything. About you. About us.”

Then I dropped to one knee in front of her.

The movement startled her, her breath catching audibly. All her carefully constructed anger faltered for just a second. Cracked just enough to give me a chance.

“I told my father everything,” I continued, lifting my gaze to meet hers, holding it there so she could see the truth in me, stripped of ego and calculation. “About the baby. About you and me. About what I want.”