I wake from the darkness as if I'm breaking the surface after staying underwater too long, lungs burning and head heavy, and the first thing I feel isn't the pain, nor the shame, nor the noise—it's the scent.
A familiar scent.
So familiar it has etched itself into my soul.
Expensive perfume, subtle, laced with something warm and masculine—skin and smoke and safety.
I open my eyes slowly, my eyelids heavy, and for a few seconds I don't understand where I am, because the light is dimmer, the music only a distant echo, the noise filtered through thick walls. I'm in a secluded room in the club, one of those spaces reserved for important guests, with low couches and cooler air.
And I am in the arms of a strong man.
His arms.
If I had even the slightest trace of doubt left, the way he holds me—firm, secure, without hesitation—confirms it.
Duca.
I hear Yelena's screams beyond the door, her sharp cries piercing the air like needles.
"Peasant! Shameless bitch! She ruined my dress!" she shrieks, her voice thick with fury and humiliation.
Her words reach me, but not as sharply as the cold palm that touches my forehead.
Duca splashes cold water over my face and neck, his movements steady but careful, the droplets sliding down my skin as I wake fully, forced to remain in the present.
"Hey, little love, open your eyes," he whispers, his voice low, deep, so close I feel it in my chest.
I look at his face, so near to mine that I can see every detail, every line of tension around his eyes.
"Breathe, okay? I'm here. Don't move suddenly," he tells me softly, in that tone he used when he wanted to calm me, when the world felt too big for me.
He gently lifts my chin and lets a few more drops of water trail down my throat.
"There, good. I caught you before you hit the floor," he continues, almost scolding—but there is far more care than reproach in his voice.
I try to pull away a little, but the dizziness is still playing tricks on me, and my whole body feels limp.
"I'm fine," I murmur, though my voice sounds like it's coming from another room.
"You're not fine," he says immediately, his jaw tightening. "You fainted."
In the background, Yelena keeps screaming, and someone is trying to calm her down—probably Nikolai or one of their men.
"Don't look at her," Duca tells me, almost commandingly, when he sees me trying to turn my head. "Look at me."
And I do.
His blue eyes are fixed on me—not on the door, not on the chaos, not on the ruined dress.
On me.
"Are you sick?" he asks more quietly now, almost tender. "How long have you been feeling like this?"
I run my tongue over my lips. They're dry.
"I'm fine. I think I caught a virus from Elena," I say, trying to sound normal. "She had a cold too."
He studies me for a long moment, as if weighing every word.
"That doesn't look like a simple cold," he murmurs.
I try to smile, but it comes out crooked.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like that… I didn't mean to… the dress…"
He cuts me off.
"To hell with the dress," he says sharply, and his voice takes on that hard edge I know too well. "I don't care about the dress."
Yelena screams again, and he closes his eyes for a second, irritated.
"You scared me, little love," he whispers, almost imperceptibly.
And for a fraction of a second, despite the shame, despite the chaos, despite the fact that I just threw up on his fiancée, I feel safe.
Exactly where I should never feel safe again.
The door suddenly slams against the wall with a sharp crack that slices the air in the room, and before I can react, Mikhail steps in first—massive and impassive—followed by a tall, stunningly beautiful woman with delicate features and an elegance that requires no effort. Behind them comes Yelena, flushed, her eyes blazing with fury, and in her wake, almost relaxed, Nikolai wipes the corners of his eyes, laughing so hard he's in tears, thoroughly entertained by the scene that just unfolded.
"This is unacceptable!" Yelena screams, pointing at me as if I were a stain on the floor. "Look what she did to me! This dress was custom-made!"
"Please, Yelena," Mikhail says calmly but firmly, without raising his voice. "I don't think she did it on purpose."
"I don't care!" she shrieks again.
The beautiful woman beside him rests her hand lightly on Mikhail's arm and speaks for the first time, her voice surprisingly warm.
"It's all right, truly," she says, looking first at me, then at Yelena. "I have a change of clothes with me. I'll gladly give you one."
Nikolai bursts out laughing again.
"My God, what a dramatic entrance," he mutters, shaking his head. "Mikhail, your engagement is going to be unforgettable."
The word hits me.
Your engagement.
I turn my gaze, dizzy, toward Mikhail.
"Mine," he confirms curtly, a shadow of pride in his voice as he gently squeezes the hand of the woman beside him. "Anna, my fiancée."
Anna.
The tall woman gives me a brief, polite smile, without a trace of superiority.
"I'm sorry you're feeling unwell," she says sincerely. "I hope you're okay."
Yelena freezes for a second, then bursts out:
"What are you even talking about? That's not the point!"
But I don't hear her anymore, because in that moment all the noise around me fades as if someone has suddenly turned down the volume of the world, and inside my head a dense, almost unreal silence settles—leaving behind a single, crystal-clear thought.
The engagement isn't his.
It isn't Duca's.
The news hits me with unexpected force, and before I realize what's happening, I feel a violent, burning relief rise from the depths of my stomach, climbing into my chest and tangling chaotically with the shame, the dizziness, and everything I thought I had managed to keep under control. I can't admit—not even to myself—how deeply this truth shakes me, how much light it spills into a place where I had already braced myself for darkness.
I can't confess, not even in a whisper, that a part of me—the part I had tried to bury deep and leave there—now bursts into an almost childish joy.
And yet I feel it.
I feel it warming my cheeks, clearing my mind, changing the rhythm of my heart, making it beat faster, fuller, as if it had been given a second chance without ever asking for one.
Duca isn't getting married.
Not to her.
I lift my eyes to him almost against my will, and for a moment our gazes meet again, heavy with everything we never said—with all the nights, all the separations, all the words we swallowed.
Around us, Yelena continues speaking heatedly, Nikolai still laughs under his breath, Mikhail tries to temper the situation with his calm voice, and Anna remains upright and composed—but to me, all of it becomes a distant backdrop.
The emotions sweep over me again, but this time they are no longer sharp and cutting, no longer panic and shame, but a warm, dizzying wave that melts my knees and softens my body, as if someone has untied the tight knot in my chest and all my blood has begun to flow differently.
I try to draw a deep breath, to stay upright, to say something coherent—but the world begins to tilt slightly, the edges of the room blur, and the voices around me dissolve into a distant murmur.
"Alla…" Duca says, and his voice takes on a rough, alert edge.
I see him move closer, his arms tightening around me instinctively, his gaze searching my face with that intensity that holds nothing calculated anymore.
"Hey, stay with me, all right? Little love, look at me."
I want to tell him I'm fine—that it's just exhaustion, just the weight of shame pressing down on me—but I don't get the chance, because my knees give out completely and I let myself go without resisting.
This time it isn't a brutal fall.
It's a soft collapse, almost soothing.
I feel him lift me into his arms with a swift, sure movement, feel the way he gathers me completely against him. My head drops instinctively to his chest, exactly where I remember it fitting perfectly.
I hear someone mention an ambulance. I hear Yelena still muttering indignantly. I hear Nikolai's laughter cut off abruptly. But all the sounds drift away, leaving only the beat of his heart beneath my cheek and that familiar scent filling my lungs.
"Open your eyes, Alla," he says firmly, almost shouting now. "Don't do this to me."
I feel him carrying me, his long, determined strides cutting through the club. The air shifts around us, people step aside, the music becomes a dull vibration somewhere far away, and I float between consciousness and darkness.
"Hospital," someone says beside him.
"Now," Duca answers without hesitation.
The word reaches my ears in the very last second of clarity.
Hospital.
I want to protest, to say it isn't necessary, that I'll recover—but my lips no longer obey me. And the last thing I feel before the darkness takes me completely is his arm tight around me and the way he holds me as if I were something fragile and irreplaceable.
And then there is nothing.
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