Page 115 of Beautiful Cruelty

The warm watershuts off but I barely notice, lost in the hollow emptiness that's settled into my bones. Vadim's hands remain steady as he wraps a plush towel around me, methodically drying my skin. I let him guide my movements like a doll, lifting my arms when he tugs the soft cotton shirt over my head.

"Here." He helps me step into a pair of black leggings.

I'm grateful for his clinical and impersonal touch in this moment. I don't think I could handle tenderness right now.

Once I'm dressed, Vadim bends down to retrieve my ruined wedding dress from where it lies in a bloody heap on the floor. His fingers work carefully at the hidden pocket, and extract the bible.

The leather binding is still pristine, untouched by the violence that destroyed everything else.

I watch him examine it, turning it over in his hands. The sight of it makes ice spread through my veins.

That book, the whole reason we're here, the reason Irina... My throat closes up before I can finish the thought.

"I need to move her to the cargo hold,” Vadim says quietly, tucking the bible into his jacket. "We can't just leave her on thefloor outside." He pauses, jaw tightening. "She deserves a proper burial. In Seattle."

I manage a small nod, unable to form words. The cargo hold. Like luggage. Like she wasn't just alive not so long ago, helping me into my wedding dress with excited hands and bright eyes.

Like she hadn't promised me that we'd look over her latest work together, dreaming of more hopeful things.

Vadim's lips brush my forehead briefly before he turns away. I hear the cabin door open and close, leaving me alone with the empty shower and my blood-stained wedding dress crumpled on the floor.

I sink onto the small leather seat, my damp hair dripping onto the soft cotton of the shirt. The reality of what just happened—what I've gotten myself into—crashes over me like a tidal wave.

This isn't just some elaborate heist anymore. This isn't a game of dress-up and pretend marriage. Irina is dead. Actually dead. Because of me. Because I agreed to this insane plan.

My hands start trembling again as I remember Olga's warning. Blood on my hands. Just like she said. And now that I'm in this deep, is there even a way out?

Sayanaa knows my face.

She knows who I am.

She's seen me wearing Mom's necklace.

What if… what if that's enough for her to follow it the way that Vadim had?

Even if I wanted to run, where would I go? Back to Seattle? To catering jobs and looking over my shoulder for the rest ofmy life? Wondering if every stranger on the street works for Sayanaa?

And what about Megan? What would happen to her if Kirsan's people found out about her? Or Dad?

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the spiral of panic. But the thoughts keep coming, faster and darker. I'm in so deep now. There's no going back to my old life. No pretending this never happened.

The blood on my hands may have washed away, but I can still feel it. Still see Irina's final smile. Still hear Olga's words echoing in my head. Is this what my life will be now? Running? Hiding? Watching more people die because they tried to help me?

My chest feels tight, like I can't get enough air. The walls seem to close in around me. I'm trapped—not just on this plane, but in this life I've stumbled into. And I'm starting to realize there might not be a way out.

The door opens and Vadim steps back in, his shirt still damp from holding me in the shower. His movements are measured, controlled, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands as he shuts the door.

"Try to get some rest," he says quietly. "We still have several hours before we land."

The thought of being alone makes my chest tighten. "Stay with me?" The word comes out barely above a whisper. "Please?"

He studies me for a long moment before nodding. Without a word, he settles beside me on the small leather bench. His arm wraps around my shoulders, drawing me against his chest.

I curl into him instinctively, seeking the familiar comfort of his embrace. But something feels different. Where his touch usually radiates warmth that seeps into my bones, now there's just... nothing. The solid press of his body against mine feels hollow, mechanical.

His heart beats steady under my ear, but the rhythm brings no comfort. His fingers pull me closer to him, but the touch feels distant and disconnected. It's like there's an invisible wall between us now, built from blood and death and consequences neither of us fully understood when this started.

I close my eyes, trying to find that spark of heat that usually ignites whenever he holds me. But all I feel is cold emptiness, matching the hollow look in his eyes when he'd knelt beside Irina's body.

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