The first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains of Kile's apartment, washing the guest room in a pale, golden glow. The city outside was already awake—horns blaring, footsteps echoing faintly against concrete, the low hum of Manhattan's heartbeat pressing against the glass.
Rose stirred beneath the unfamiliar sheets, her head buried in the pillow, her body tangled in restless sleep. For a fleeting moment, she let herself believe she was home. That she'd wake up to Nikolai's steady breathing beside her, his arm heavy around her waist, the scent of his cologne clinging to her skin.
But when she turned and found only the hollow space of an empty bed, the truth struck again—sharp, unrelenting.
She had left. She had thrown the ring at him, stormed out, slammed a door on what should have been the happiest night of her life. And no matter how much she tried to bury it in the fog of sleep, the ache returned with every breath.
Her hand lifted unconsciously, fingers brushing against her bare skin where the diamond used to rest. The emptiness screamed louder than any alarm clock could.
Dragging herself upright, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, staring at the sunlight spilling across the wooden floorboards. For a heartbeat she thought of crawling back under the covers and shutting the world out. Pretending. Forgetting. But she knew she couldn't.
Barefoot, she padded down the short hallway toward the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee reached her first, warm and bitter, cutting through the haze of her thoughts. The sound of a spoon clinking against a mug followed, steady, familiar.
Kile was already there, dressed neatly in a crisp shirt, scrolling through his tablet as though the world hadn't cracked open days ago. Alejandro leaned lazily against the counter, arms crossed, tossing a grape into the air and catching it with his mouth like he hadn't a care in the world.
Both men looked up when she appeared.
"You look like hell," Alejandro said immediately, smirk tugging at his lips.
Rose's brow arched, but the exhaustion in her eyes dimmed the expression. "Good morning to you too."
Kile wordlessly got up and reached for an extra mug, filling it before setting it down in front of her. Rose wrapped her hands around it as if it might anchor her, the steam rising to fog her vision. She took a cautious sip, burning her tongue, but didn't flinch. The sting was welcome—something tangible, something real.
Alejandro's smirk softened, his voice losing its edge. "You're thinking about him."
Rose froze.
"You always are," he added, quieter this time.
She wanted to deny it, to roll her eyes and throw back some clever retort, but her throat tightened instead. So she said nothing.
Kile gave her a small, sympathetic glance but didn't press. He just poured himself more coffee and returned to his tablet, letting silence stretch between them. For Rose, it was suffocating.
---
By midmorning, she found herself at Kile's new coffee shop, a little haven tucked into the bustle of the city. The sleek wooden counters gleamed, the floor still smelled faintly of varnish, and the soft hiss of the espresso machine filled the air.
Rose tied an apron around her waist, smoothing the fabric as if the simple act might smooth out her chaos. She told herself she was only helping Kile out. That it was better to keep busy than to sit in the apartment counting hours. But the truth was that she needed this—needed something to hold on to before she unraveled completely.
"Two lattes, extra hot," a customer said, handing her cash.
Rose scribbled the order and passed it along, her practiced smile in place. "Coming right up."
The man nodded and walked away. Rose's gaze drifted to the polished steel of the machine, and her own reflection stared back at her. Her red curls were tied into a loose ponytail, strands falling around her face. Shadows marked the skin beneath her eyes, and there was a hollowness in her expression she couldn't disguise.
She looked like someone trying too hard to pretend.
The clink of porcelain cups being set on the counter echoed in her ears, and suddenly she wasn't in Kile's café anymore. She was back in Nikolai's penthouse, crystal glasses ringing against wood, the sharp pour of whisky filling the silence, his voice—low, commanding, infuriatingly calm. And then softer, only for her.
Her chest tightened.
She shook herself and returned to the present, sliding the lattes toward the waiting customer with a polite smile.
But no matter how many orders she took, no matter how many smiles she forced, the ghost of him followed her everywhere.
---
By the time evening draped itself over Manhattan, Rose was drained. The apron felt heavy as she untied it, her feet sore from standing, her hands trembling when she thought no one was looking.
She and Kile walked back to the apartment together, the city buzzing around them. The neon glow of signs reflected in puddles, taxi horns cut through the noise, laughter from strangers spilled out of bars. It was a world that kept spinning, uncaring of the fact that hers had stopped.
When they stepped inside, Alejandro was sprawled across the couch, flipping through channels with bored disinterest. His eyes immediately sharpened when they landed on her.
"You lasted a whole day without talking about him," he remarked, raising a brow.
Rose dropped onto the armchair with a sigh, folding her arms. "Because there's nothing to say."
Alejandro clicked the remote off, sitting up straighter. His voice lost any trace of sarcasm. "When are you going to call him?"
Her entire body stiffened. "Why should I? He should call me first."
"You walked out on him," Alejandro shot back, his tone firm. "You threw the damn ring at him, Rose. The least you can do is call."
The words sliced through her, sharp and unyielding. Her throat tightened, and for a second she thought she might scream. That it wasn't that simple. That every single nerve in her body burned with the need to dial his number, to hear his voice, even if he was furious.
But her pride—the same pride that had shoved the ring at him—screamed louder.
"He was wrong too," she said, voice unsteady but stubborn. "I can't just ignore that."
Alejandro's gaze softened, though his eyes held no mercy. "You're wasting time. You love him. And he—hell, even a blind man could see he loves you."
Rose looked away, blinking hard, her vision blurring.
The truth was there, pulsing in her chest. But so was the fear.
She was terrified. Terrified that if she called, if she reached out, all she'd hear was his rejection. That when he'd told her not to come back, he had meant it. That she had already destroyed everything.
So she said nothing. She just sat there, wrapped in silence, her heart screaming louder than her pride but her fear louder than them both.
---
The boardroom air was heavy, metallic, as though it already tasted of blood before anything had even happened. The long marble table gleamed under the recessed lights, glasses of water untouched, ashtrays littered with half-smoked cigars. A dozen men sat rigid in their chairs, their murmurs threading around figures and maps projected on the wall.
On the surface, it was business as usual—numbers, shipments, routes. But beneath it all was a quiet dread, because everyone could feel the shift in Nikolai. He hadn't spoken much since he'd taken his seat. His jaw was set too tight, his knuckles tapping rhythmically against the polished marble. His blue eyes, sharp as shards of ice, moved from one man to the next, but never softened.
Finally, one man cleared his throat, tentative. "I think we should reroute through Baltimore. The docks there are quieter now, less eyes on the containers—"
"No."
The single word cracked like a whip, silencing the room.
The man blinked, startled but steady enough to continue. "With the increase in patrols on the New Jersey docks, it's the safer—"
The thunderclap came before the sentence could finish.
In a blink, Nikolai had drawn his gun and fired. The sound tore through the enclosed space, echoing off marble and glass. The bullet tore into the man's skull, spraying red across the pristine table, droplets landing on the dossiers and maps spread before them.
The body slumped in the chair, head hanging grotesquely, and then slid sideways with a dull thud against the floor.
The silence after was suffocating. Not a breath. Not a scrape of a chair. Even the clock ticking on the wall seemed to hesitate.
Nikolai sat motionless, his gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. His chest rose and fell too quickly, each inhale sharp, as if it hurt him to breathe. He lowered the weapon slowly, deliberately, then set it against the table with a metallic clink. His face was unreadable, carved in stone, but his eyes—his eyes burned.
Sergei, sitting two seats down, dragged a hand across his mouth and groaned loudly. Then his palm slammed against the table, rattling glasses. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Nikolai?"
No answer.
Nikolai only stared at the blood sliding across the marble, his reflection warped in it.
"Christ Almighty," Sergei spat. His face twisted with fury. "You're not a goddamn child. You don't throw tantrums and kill men because you're sulking like a lovesick brat."
A ripple of tension broke the silence. A few men shifted, their gazes darting between Sergei and Nikolai, they knew that Sergei was a man no one dared to cross, and he was the only one who could bend Nikolai to his will. But right now, it seemed like they were equals.
Still, Nikolai said nothing.
"Get the fuck out," Sergei barked, his voice echoing in the vaulted space. "Get out and don't show your face in another meeting until you get your shit together. You hear me? You're a liability like this."
For a moment, it looked as if Nikolai might argue, might raise that gun again. His knuckles flexed on the arm of his chair, jaw ticking. Then, with a snap of motion, he shoved the gun back into his holster, rose from his seat, and stalked toward the door.
The echo of his footsteps was the only sound as he left the boardroom behind.
---
That night, the penthouse was a tomb.
Dim amber light from the floor lamps spread across the living room, barely illuminating the edges of the vast space. Shadows stretched long across polished floors. The only sound was the steady clink of glass and the occasional low exhale.
Nikolai sat sprawled on the leather armchair, his tie hanging loose, shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the throat. His hair was a mess from dragging his hands through it too many times. The whisky bottle leaned against his thigh, half-drained, his glass abandoned on the table in front of him.
Alexei sat opposite him, uncharacteristically still, his elbows resting on his knees. He watched his boss with a mixture of pity and irritation, his dark eyes shadowed.
"Has she called?" Nikolai's voice was hoarse, scraped raw, as if dragged over broken glass.
Alexei hesitated, then shook his head. "No."
The word landed like a stone. Nikolai closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled through his teeth, the sound sharp. He grabbed the glass, tipped it back, and swallowed hard. The burn scalded his throat, but it wasn't enough—not nearly enough—to quiet the ache gnawing at him.
"Maybe you should reach out first," Alexei said carefully, breaking the silence.
Nikolai's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "What?"
"Call her. Text her. Something. You've been sitting here for days waiting for a call that isn't coming."
Nikolai's laugh was humorless, bitter. "And what if she doesn't want to see me anymore?" His voice cracked, just barely, but enough. He looked away quickly, jaw tightening, as though the crack itself was a humiliation.
Alexei leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Or what if she's waiting for you to call?"
"Don't be ridiculous." Nikolai's words were clipped, defensive. He set the glass down with a sharp clink, his fingers trembling slightly as he did.
"Ridiculous?" Alexei pressed, his tone hardening. "You're drowning yourself in whisky every night, you just shot a man in the boardroom because you're too strung out to think, and you're telling me I'm being ridiculous?"
Nikolai's hand slammed against the table, rattling the glass. "You don't understand!"
"Then explain it to me," Alexei shot back. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're letting her walk out of your life without lifting a finger to stop it."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Nikolai's chest rose and fell quickly, his pulse thundering in his ears.
Slowly, he dragged his hand across his face, fingers digging into his eyes. Then, with deliberate care, he reached into his pocket. When he pulled his hand out, the ring glimmered between his fingers—the same ring she had thrown at him, the same ring that still felt warm with her absence.
He turned it over in his hand, the diamond catching in the dim light.
"I miss her," he whispered. It wasn't meant to be heard, but Alexei heard it anyway.
For a long moment, Nikolai just stared at the ring, as though it could somehow pull her back to him. Every breath, every second without her was unbearable. The ache in his chest was no longer sharp but constant, like something lodged there, refusing to leave.
"But you don't know how to bend," Alexei said softly, his tone stripped of all sharpness now. "That's the problem. You don't know how to soften, how to swallow your pride. You only know how to wait, convinced she'll come crawling back."
Nikolai's lips parted, but no words came out.
He only closed his fist slowly around the ring, his knuckles whitening. His silence said it all.
And with each passing day, doubt gnawed deeper.
---
The next afternoon was unremarkable. Rose had finished another shift at Kile's café, her feet aching, her head buzzing. She decided to walk instead of calling a cab. The air was brisk, the city alive with horns and chatter, but it did nothing to soothe her restless heart.
At the same time, across town, Nikolai stepped out of a high-end restaurant with two clients. His suit was immaculate, his face schooled into cold professionalism, but inside he was fractured. The clients shook his hand and disappeared into the crowd.
And then—
He froze.
Just ahead, not ten feet away, was Rose.
Her red curls were unmistakable, her coat wrapped tightly around her, her expression distant. She looked up—and her eyes locked with his.
The city seemed to vanish. The honking cars, the bustling strangers, the swirl of movement around them—all blurred into nothing.
It was just them.
Rose's lips parted slightly, her breath catching. Tears pricked her eyes before she could stop them. Her hand twitched as if she wanted to reach for him but couldn't.
Nikolai's throat went dry. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. His heart thundered in his chest, but his body betrayed him, leaving him rooted to the spot.
Neither smiled. Neither cried outright. They just stared, frozen in the fragile space between reunion and collapse, an ocean of unsaid words stretching between them.
And for the first time in days, both realized—
They weren't okay.
But they were still each other's gravity.