Page 37 of Paid for By the Bratva

I have no answer for her, no reassurances that can erase the damage I've done. The truth is, I don't know how to regain her trust—or if I even deserve it.

"Give me a chance to make things right," I plead, desperation seeping into my voice. "I'll do whatever it takes, Lara. Just give me a chance."

She parts her lips but holds back her words. I can see how conflicted she is, and I don’t blame her.

I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as I face the wounded look in Lara's eyes. "Lara, I am truly sorry for what I've done," I say, my voice filled with heartfelt sincerity. "I never meant to hurt you or deceive you."

Her gaze remains fixed on me, her expression a mix of pain and defiance. She listens without interruption, but I can tell she is still guarded, still unsure whether or not to believe me.

"From now on, I promise to be completely honest with you," I continue, my determination evident in my tone. "I want to rebuild your trust, and I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen."

As I speak, I can see her resolve wavering, the hurt in her eyes gradually giving way to a flicker of hope. But there's still an undeniable distance between us—a divide created by my actions, one that may prove difficult to bridge.

"I don't know if I can trust you again, Dima," Lara admits, her voice soft and hesitant. "But I'm willing to try."

"Thank you," I murmur, relief washing over me. It's a start, at least—a small glimmer of hope amid the wreckage of our relationship.

"However, this doesn't change the fact that I want my independence," she adds, her spine straightening as she stands up for herself. "I need to know that I have control over my own life, even within the confines of our marriage."

I nod in understanding, acknowledging the validity of her concerns. "I'll respect your wishes, Lara. We'll work together to find a balance that allows you both freedom and safety. Let's take it one day at a time," I suggest, offering her a small, tentative smile.

"Alright," she agrees, yet her eyes meet mine with a hint of cautious pessimism. "One day at a time."

Although relieved, I know I’m going to have to do a lot more to win back her trust and true forgiveness.

Chapter 13 - Lara

After three long days, I muster up the courage to enter the kitchen for breakfast. Since I found out Dima lied to me about how dangerous Marv is, I’ve been holed up in my room, thinking.

Since we got married, I’ve come to see Dima as a kind man who gives me the space I need. And yet, to know he claimed me has me questioning whether he would truly be comfortable allowing me to be the person I am.

In my head, despite us having had a fair conversation and him coming clean, I still see him as an extension of who my brothers are. He says he’s not like them, that he made a mistake, but words mean nothing when the past ones used weren’t honest.

Now, it’s only actions that will speak.

Once I reached that conclusion, it became easier to escape from my room. After all, in the spirit of fairness, how can he show me who he is unless I decide to spend time with him?

So, for now, I hold on to my quiet discontentment over what happened but decide to let him have a chance to show me otherwise.

I walk him and see him sitting on the table already, his piercing gray eyes focused intently on the newspaper before him.

"Morning," he murmurs, looking up from the paper. I see a hint of worry and concern from how his eyebrows are furrowed.

"Good morning," I reply, taking a seat.

I sip my tea in silence, hyperaware of Dima's presence. The clinking of silverware and quiet bustle of the staff feeldeafening compared to our hushed bubble. I want so badly to bridge this rift, but my pride holds me back.

“Did you sleep well?” he finally asks, closing the paper. I’m relieved he doesn’t address the growing distance between us, but it still looms over us.

“Quite well,” I reply.

"Listen," Dima says, setting aside his plate. "You've been cooped up for days. How about joining me at the club today?"

“The club?” I respond, puzzled. “I’m not really the outdoorsy type.”

“What?” he asks, puzzled, then a chuckle escapes him.

“What?” I squeak, unsure of the joke.

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