Page 37 of Til Death Do Us Part (Kornilov Bratva Duet 2)

I fight back the flare of anger and concern that rises up in me.

“That is why you need to get out of here,” Hannah says. “Let’s do it. Right now. We’ll leave, pick up Theo, and run. Who is better at living under the radar than a formerly homeless woman and a current one? We are society’s undesirables. Let’s embrace our invisibility and run.”

There is silence for a long time, and I start to worry Molly is considering the offer. But she wouldn’t … would she?

Running now would be so foolish. Fedor would find her in a second, and with no one to protect her or Theo or the baby, she’d be killed. Or worse.

“I can’t,” Molly says at last. “I have to think about Theo. Plus, I’m pregnant.”

“We were both pregnant the first time we slept under a bridge,” Hannah says. “We can do it again.”

Molly doesn’t say anything, but her answer must be clear enough because Hannah sighs. “Okay, but just know I’ll support you no matter what you decide.”

She sounds so sincere, but she is also trying to convince my (fake) wife to run away with her and take Theo and my baby with them, so I don’t think it is a good idea to let them spend anymore alone time together. I push open the door without knocking and stand in the doorway, arms crossed.

Hannah jumps back, yanking her arm from Molly’s shoulder, and Molly yelps, her eyes going wide.

“You should be dressed by now,” I say.

Hannah steps forward again and lifts her chin. “She isn’t feeling well.”

I glare at her and then tip my head towards the door. “I’d like to speak to my wife alone.”

Hannah’s eyes narrow and she lays a hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Only if Molly wants me to go.”

We both look at Molly, and she seems to shrink under our gaze. Then, she pats Hannah’s hand and assures her it is okay.

“Of course it’s okay. I’m your husband,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Hannah doesn’t look convinced of that fact as she slinks from the room, sliding past me. I slam the door shut behind her.

“What the fuck was that about?”

Molly is sitting on the edge of the bed in maroon sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie. I can see that her dark hair is curled in soft waves, and her brown eyes are rimmed in smoky eyeshadow and mascaraed. She is partially ready, at least, but the dress is nowhere to be seen.

“She was helping me get ready.”

I roll my eyes, not wanting to argue with her right now. “She was doing a bad job. Where’s your dress?”

Molly points to the closet, and I open the doors and pull the slinky silver dress out from where it had been stuffed in the back.

“Do you not like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” Molly says softly. “It’s just … it’s not me. None of this is me.”

She gestures to her makeup and her hair. “I’m not a woman who goes to fancy dinners and mingles with the most powerful men in the city. I feel like everything in my life is a game of pretend, and I am so tired of playing.”

My anger dissipates when I look into her eyes and see the sadness there. The resignation.

Molly looks exhausted, and I wish I could lay her back on the bed, tuck her into my chest, and sleep next to her.

But I can’t.

We have to go.

I hang the dress from the top of the closet door and move to sit next to Molly on the bed. She instinctively turns towards me as I sit, and I reach out and lay a hand on her knee.

“Molly, you don’t have to pretend to be the most beautiful woman in any room.”

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