Page 52 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
“You have no choice. This is my life.”
That same heavy silence.
“I have to go,” she whispers.
“You lying, manipulative, cold-hearted evil…”
“Don’t say that, Timofey.”
“You betrayed me in the most brutal way. Your brother was right. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. How can you take my child from me? How can you spend so much time with me, pretending that we meant something to each other…you are pure evil, Talia,” I snarl, spitting my words into the phone.
“I have to go,” she says again, quieter. Colder.
“Talia, don’t you dare…”
But it’s too late. She’s already hung up.
I fling my phone across the room, and it smashes against the far wall, the screen shattering and pieces of it splintering across the room, falling to the carpet. I stare at it. I can’t process what just happened.
My heart is splintering in the same way the phone shattered.
My legs are shaking, my entire body is shaking.
This can’t be real.
But it was her. It was her words. Her choice.
This can’t be real.
I wait.
Days roll past in a blur.
I wait, hoping to wake up from this nightmare, but it won’t end.
At night, I drink. I don’t stop drinking because I have to numb the agony pulsing through me like a constant river of poison.
And with each passing hour, I get closer to accepting that it truly is over between us. That she isn’t going to change her mind. So I drink more.
No matter what I do, I can’t stop feeling.
At work, I’m volatile. I fight with everyone. How can I focus on business when the only thing that ever mattered to me has been ripped from my life?
“You reek of alcohol,” Oleg complains, pulling a sour face as he glares at me. “Go home, Timofey. You can’t be here, acting like this.”
“Acting like what?” I snarl, pushing past him into the office while he tries to block the door.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re drunk,” he snaps.
“I’m not.”
“Whatever you did last night…you’re still drunk. Go the fuck home.”
He shoves me hard, and I stagger backward, shaking my head. “Don’t push me, Oleg. Trust me. You don’t want.”
He huffs, shaking his head. “Go. Home,” he demands, clipping his words with warning. “Shower. Eat something. I’ll come and see you after work. We can talk, man. We can figure it out.”
I snort indignantly. “There’s nothing to figure out.” And suddenly I don’t care that he’s telling me to leave. I want to leave. I don’t give a shit about work. Or anything.
