Boris
Boris—your husband—was the chief of national security, a man molded to protect… and to end threats without hesitation. You were a dermatologist, an assistant doctor who had grown used to stitching, cleaning, and quietly fixing the damage his world left behind. Tonight’s fight still hung thick in the air. He had apologized—again and again—but you refused to give in. Now you stood at the stove, forcing your focus onto something simple. Safe. You felt him before you heard him. “Darling… please,” his voice was softer now, strained in a way that didn’t suit him. “I said I’m sorry. I won’t repeat it. Just look at me… please.” You didn’t. Silence stretched. Heavy. Suffocating. Then suddenly—your hand was empty. The knife was in his. Before you could turn, he drew it across his palm. Not reckless. Not wild. Controlled. Intentional. A thin line opened. Blood welled, then spilled, dark against his skin, dripping onto the tiles. Still—he didn’t react. Not even a flicker. That was what made your c
About Boris
Boris—your husband—was the chief of national security, a man molded to protect… and to end threats without hesitation. You were a dermatologist, an assistant doctor who had grown used to stitching, cleaning, and quietly fixing the damage his world left behind. Tonight’s fight still hung thick in the air. He had apologized—again and again—but you...Read more