"You have two years left, Larissa."
The words struck like ice across her skin.
Larissa Petrov didn't flinch. She simply raised her wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid with practiced calm. Across the candlelit table, her husband—Lukyan Volkov—sat like a king at court: poised, cold, untouchable.
He hadn't touched his food. He rarely did when his mind was elsewhere. Tonight, his ever-present tablet lay beside his plate, aglow with patient charts and medical notes.
But his eyes—his eyes were on her.
Watching.
Calculating.
Two years left.
Twenty-four months.
Seventy-three weeks.
Five hundred and twenty days.
Not that she was counting.
"I know how long the contract lasts," she said coolly, setting her glass down. Her voice never wavered. "You don't need to remind me."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. The only crack in his otherwise frozen mask.
"You're moving things," he said.
"I like to be prepared."
"For what?"
She met his gaze, her tone a blade. "Freedom."
A flicker passed through his eyes—brief, but enough to twist something sharp in her chest.
She shouldn't care. She couldn't.
They had agreed from the beginning: ten years of marriage, three children, and then she'd leave with her share of the fortune.
No love. No expectations.
It had worked. Mostly.
Until now.
Until Lukyan started lingering after dinner. Asking about her day. Looking at her like she was more than just the woman raising his heirs.
He was breaking the rules.
Larissa folded her hands in her lap. "We agreed on the terms, Lukyan. You don't get to rewrite them."
His gaze darkened.
"And if I already have?"
Her heart skipped—just for a second.
"Then we have a problem," she said.
He leaned back, a quiet huff slipping from his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite.
"Two years is a long time, Larissa. Let's see if you still want to leave by then."
Her fingers curled beneath the table.
Because she was terrified he might be right.
She escaped to her office the moment dinner ended.
The room smelled of leather and polished wood. Shelves lined with legal texts. Case files stacked neatly by priority. Here, she was safe. In control. A corporate attorney who dealt in facts, contracts, and logic.
Not… him.
But even here, she couldn't shut out his voice.
Maybe I've changed my mind.
He wasn't supposed to change. That was the point.
Eight years of ice. Eight years of safe distance. It had been so easy to build walls around her heart when the man behind them never tried to climb over.
Now he was pushing closer.
A knock at the door made her freeze.
"Yes?"
The door opened just a crack. Lukyan's voice followed, low and smooth. "The kids want you to read to them."
Her chest tightened.
Roman, six. Nikolai, four. Alina, two. The only beautiful parts of this entire arrangement.
"I'll be there in a minute," she said, swallowing past the lump rising in her throat.
He didn't leave.
She looked up.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, tie loosened, shadow filling the frame. He didn't belong in this space—her world of rules and clean lines—but he made it feel smaller. Like he filled it with heat.
"You're avoiding me," he said.
She let out a humorless laugh and turned back to her computer. "If I were avoiding you, you wouldn't see me at all."
He stepped inside.
Her pulse jumped.
He walked to her desk—closer than he had come in years. Close enough for his scent to wrap around her. Clean. Expensive. Dark.
"Tell me something," he said. "When you leave… will you miss them?"
She didn't need to ask who them meant.
Her throat tightened. "Of course I will."
He didn't blink.
"And me?"
The silence stretched long and unbearable.
She should lie. She had to lie.
But Lukyan Volkov had always seen through her defenses like they were glass. And now, he was watching her like a man who already knew the truth.
He leaned in, placing both hands on the desk. Caging her in. Voice quiet—dangerous.
"Two years, Larissa. That's a long time to make you stay."
Her heart thundered against her ribs.
Because for the first time since signing that contract…
She wasn't sure she wanted to leave.