Page 19 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“Then what?”
“Then I move on with my life. Finish my degree or find another internship somewhere he can’t reach. Pretend the last three months never happened.”
“Can you do that?”
No. The answer is immediate and certain. I’ll never forget the way he touched me, the way he made me feel seen and wanted and significant. I’ll never forget the betrayal that followed, the casual cruelty of his dismissal.
I’ll carry all of it forever.
“I have to try,” I say instead.
***
The exposé goes live on a Monday morning.
I’m not the one who publishes it—I sent everything to ProPublica two weeks ago, anonymously, through encrypted channels Diana helped me set up. They spent the time since verifying sources, conducting their own investigations, adding depth I couldn’t access.
The final piece is devastating.
It names names, connects Dimitri’s empire to displaced families, shuttered businesses, communities torn apart by development that serves everyone except the people who lived there first. It stops short of directly accusing him of criminal ties—legal probably wouldn’t allow it without harder proof—but the implications are clear enough.
I read it three times, coffee going cold beside me, watching the comment count climb.
There’s no taking it back.
My phone buzzes. I look down and see a message from Diana.
Holy shit. It’s everywhere. Twitter, Reddit, local news picking it up. You did it.
I should feel victorious. Triumphant. This is exactly what I wanted—consequences for Dimitri Rudenko, proof that he can’t just erase people who inconvenience him without anyone noticing.
Instead, I feel hollow.
I close my laptop and walk to the window, staring out at the city that’s chewed me up exactly the way Dimitri predicted it would. Somewhere out there, he’s probably learning about the exposé. Probably already making calls, managing fallout, calculating damage.
Does he know it was me? Will he care if he does?
I press my forehead against cool glass and let myself remember, just for a moment, the way his hands felt on my skin. The way he’d called me beautiful and meant it. The way he’d stopped before taking everything because he claimed I deserved better.
Maybe some part of that man had been real.
Or maybe I’m still just stupid enough to want to believe it.
Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore. I made my choice. Published my truth. Drew a line between who I was before him and who I have to become after.
Whatever we had—if we ever had anything real at all—ends here.
The city glitters below me, indifferent and eternal. In three months, I’ll finish my exchange program and go home. Return to a life that doesn’t include overpriced coffee and men who move through the world like they own it.
I’ll forget him eventually.
I’m lying to myself, and I know it.
My phone buzzes again. It’s an unknown number. My heart stops for a second before I force myself to check.
Flight booked for tomorrow. Come home early. We miss you. - Mom
Not him. Of course it’s not him.
