Page 55 of Twisted Vows

Ari’s hand moves up to my jaw, her thumb brushing lightly over the stubble there. The touch is intimate, soft, and it makes my chest tighten in a way I’m not used to.

“I don’t know what it’s like,” she says, her voice low. “But I can tell that Alexey doesn’t make a move without you. Like André and my brother. And their father’s before them.”

Her words hit me in the gut, and I feel something uncoil inside me. It’s not like I needed validation. I’ve always been sure of myself—but hearing her say that… it’s like the fucking gold star I never asked for.

For a second, I want to reinforce my walls. Keep everything locked down.

I feel my muscles tense beneath her hand, the urge to say something shitty, almost overwhelming. Vulnerability will get you killed faster than anything. It’s a weakness.

But she’s looking at me like this—like she sees all of it and doesn’t care or maybe cares too much—and I find myself not wanting to pull away.

Instead, I let out a slow breath, my hand coming up to cover hers. “I’m not used to this,” I admit, my voice low. “Letting someone in.”

Ari smiles, but it’s soft, understanding. “Neither am I.”

Her words settle something in me, a quiet acceptance between us. Maybe we’re both learning how to navigate this—whatever this is.

I tighten my grip on her hand, grounding myself in the feel of her skin against mine.

We lay in the quiet for a while, our hands still linked. It’s a silence that feels like progress, like something’s shifted between us.

Like the space between us isn’t just filled with duty or necessity—it’s filled with something real.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Secret & lies.

Ari

Maxsim shifts beside me and I open my eyes just enough to catch him sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, his shoulders tight. Even in the faint light spilling through the curtains, he looks like he’s preparing for a fight—like the battle is already weighing on him, even if it hasn’t begun.

His phone buzzes softly on the nightstand. He glances at the screen, his jaw tightening, then silences it with a swipe of his thumb. Not a single word leaves his lips as he stands and begins to dress.

I stay still, half-wrapped in the sheets that still hold his heat. A part of me wants to say something—to ask where he’s going, why he has to leave, or even why he can’t just stay here with me for a little longer. But I don’t.

Instead, I watch him.

His movements are practiced, precise. He pulls on his shirt and adjusts the cuffs, the whole process feeling cold. Mechanical. It’s as if whatever softness he let slip earlier is gone, locked away now that the day has begun.

He notices me watching. Our eyes meet, and something flickers across his face for just a second. Hesitation, maybe. Or guilt. I don’t know. It’s gone so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it.

“I’ll be back later,” he says. His voice is measured, giving nothing away.

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut, and the weight of the silence presses down on me. The room feels colder, like he’s taken every ounce of warmth with him.

I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling. My mind churns, trying to untangle the mess of thoughts twisting in my chest. Is it the man or the marriage leaving me so unsteady? Am I angry at him for leaving or myself for wanting him to stay?

I don’t have an answer. But I know I can’t lie here any longer.

If Maxsim is going to meet the day, then I am too.

Several hours later, the rhythmic thud of my fists against the heavy bag fills the gym, echoing off the concrete walls. Each strike lands harder than the last. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Jab. Cross. Hook.

My arms ache, and my breath comes in sharp bursts, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

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