Katerina:

When do you stop?

When do you stop caring about a person who doesn't care at all about you?

When do you stop loving someone who despises you?

When do you stop thinking about someone whose thoughts never concern you?

When do you stop giving up so much for someone, sacrificing your entire life for someone who would never do the same?

When do you stop being married to a man who behaves as though he was never wedded to you?

When does it end?

For me, never. I could not make myself stop loving him no matter how much agony he brought me. I could not stop myself from feeling pain when he felt pain or from smiling when he was happy, or from defending our relationship even when others said we were wrong for each other.

I knew we were. I knew that to him, I was nothing more than a wife on paper, nothing more than a contract, a means to an end, and the promise of an heir to take over his legacy. But to me, he was my husband—flesh and blood and bone. Heart and soul and spirit. I told myself it was my religious principles that made me stick it out with him, that made me refuse the idea of a divorce—but in the end, it was him.

It was him, and him only, that kept me from leaving.

***

Alexander:

How do you keep yourself from loving someone?

How do you turn off your heart and shut it away and use your head instead?

How do you stay alone and be at peace with it?

How do you keep yourself away from the one person you will not let yourself care for when they are just within your reach?

I couldn't love her. But I did.

Despite all my attempts not to, despite all the times I tried to see only her flaws, however few, and none of her beauty, her selflessness, her intelligence, and passion…I could not.

I could not help but fall in love with her. With the one person I swore to never love, never to care for—because once I did, I knew I would break her. Because that was what I did to everyone I loved.

And because she deserved so much more than to be a broken, empty wreck of a woman that everyone I loved became. Yet I was selfish.

I was selfish enough to love her, and I was too selfish to stay away.

"Sorry for your loss, dear," said one of my dad's employees, her lined face blurring beneath the mesh veil I wore, as well as from the tears that filled my eyes for what felt like the thousandth time.

"Thank you, ma'am."

She pulled me into a hug that was likely meant to be comforting, but it just felt like I was being trapped, buried underground—just like my father. I could smell her heavy perfume, cloying and headache-inducing. The crucifix on my necklace banged against my collarbone when she released me, leaving a reddened imprint on my pale skin. She patted my shoulder and left. I turned to the next person, an unfamiliar man in an expensive looking suit. Out of habit by now, I stuck out my hand for him to shake.

He didn't take it, and I quickly returned it to my blazer pocket, too numb for embarrassment. "Are you Katerina Marie Devereaux, daughter of Pierre Étienne Devereaux?" he asked in a gravelly voice.

"I am," I said warily. "Why do you ask—and who is asking, sir?"

He tapped at his lapel, and I noticed a discreet silver name tag standing out against the black wool: ROLAND CHRÉTIEN. "I can't say in such a public space, Miss, so if you would be so kind as to come with me...?"

I looked around. The reception area was deserted, and I couldn't imagine going back to my lonely apartment, empty of the possessions since I had moved back home to take care of my father for the past half of the year. Was Roland Chrétien one of my father's lawyers? A creditor? I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that whoever he was, he wouldn't mess up my life further.

Then I opened my eyes and spoke. "Very well, Mr. Chrétien. I will come with you."

"This way, then." He walked briskly in front of me, leading me to…why the heck was there a limousine waiting outside? And why the heck was he opening the door for me to get into it?

I hoped my dad didn't owe money to the Mafia or something. A chill wind blew, stirring the hair at my nape that had eluded my bun, and I quickly got into the car. Black leather surrounded me, making me feel once again like I was suffocating. I must have flicked a switch somewhere because the seat beneath me heated the moment I sat down. A yelp of surprise escaped my lips.

Roland Chrétien got in next to me and shut the door. He must not have been the driver because the car started moving right away. "Before you get any ideas, Miss Devereaux, I want to assure you that I am not here to collect any of your father's debts. I am simply here to ensure the contents of his will are carried out."

"My father never mentioned you," I managed to stutter out, relieved. I wanted to shout, Praise the Lord! My father's business had started to go downhill when he died, and what little salary I had from working at my summer job stocking shelves went to my nursing school tuition. "May I know what those contents are, Mr. Chrétien?"

"Unfortunately, it is a very private matter, the nature of which needs to remain confidential until all concerned parties are in place," he replied, gripping the handle of a briefcase I hadn't noticed tightly. It was crocodile-patterned, glossy and dark red.

"Concerned parties?" I repeated. "Who else is involved in this, Mr. Chrétien?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot say, Miss Devereaux." His voice remained level, not betraying any information or emotion.

"Cannot, or will not, Mr. Chrétien?" I kept my voice low, trying my best not to be shrill.

My mother had drilled ladylike requirements in me from a young age, but in times like this—when my father was dead, and a strange man was escorting me to God knows where and refused to answer any of my questions—remaining genteel and keeping my temper became rather difficult.

"Miss Devereaux, I assure you that your questions will be answered in due time when we arrive at our destination," he responded, for the first time showing a bit of irritation in the pulsing vein at his temple.

"Very well." I breathed in deeply, trying to summon some bit of patience. God, give me strength. "May I ask, however, a very simple query?"

"Go on." He sighed. Rain drummed down on the limousine roof.

"Where, exactly, in Montreal are we going?" I folded my arms across my chest, my emotions beginning to mirror the brewing storm outside, where thunder rumbled, and lightning forked across the charcoal sky.

"Nowhere."

"Excuse me, Mr. Chrétien?"

"We are going out of Montreal, Miss Devereaux," he said, and then turned white.

Clearly, he had said something he hadn't meant to. I pulled out my phone to see if there was any way of using GPS to find out where we were headed, but there was no signal and no Wi-Fi. It must have been blocked out by the storm.

"I'm afraid I am required by my employer to confiscate your mobile phone, Miss Devereaux." He held out a hand expectantly. I did my best to force down my bereaved sigh, then placed it in his palm. "He would prefer this meeting to remain as private as possible."

"And who is he?" I asked. Something glinted and caught my eye; it was the gold lettering on his briefcase, spelling out S. IN. This was not a good omen for me.

"I cannot say—" The car jerked to a stop, cutting off his words. "We are making a stop at the airport. You may have all the answers you desire, Miss Devereaux, when we reach our final destination. Thank you for your cooperation."

He once again held the door open for me, and without the tinted windows blocking my view or our conversation distracting me, I could see exactly where we were: parked in front of an enormous private jet with the words STEELE INDUSTRIES painted across the side of it in cobalt blue. My throat went dry. "Mr. Chrétien, why is there—?"

"Get in, Miss Devereaux. And no more questions."

+

After a few hours, we landed and were ushered into yet another limousine. Finally, we made it to…wherever we were going. I exited the vehicle and found myself standing in front of an enormous skyscraper, surrounded by equally looming steel-and-glass structures…in the heart of New York. Surely, I thought, there were no mafia organizations in the heart of New York?

I swallowed thickly, clutching the pendant at my throat, feeling the diamond cross dig into the pad of my thumb for a moment before I let it go and stepped into the building.

"Hello," I said, walking into the lobby, determined not to be nervous. Rain dripped off my peacoat onto the marble floor, and the woman behind the reception desk gave me a dirty look. If she were outside where it was raining heavily now, she would have drowned—that was how high her nose was in the air.

"Well, do you have an appointment?" she asked in a tone that might as well have said, well, do you have a reason for wasting my precious time?

"No, but—"

"You are speaking to Katerina Devereaux, Martin," came Roland Chrétien's voice from behind me. Through my haze of indignation and grief, I felt confusion—who named their daughter Martin?

"Please accept my sincerest apologies, Miss Devereaux," the receptionist suddenly greeted me with an odd, unexplained reverence. As I cautiously neared the desk, I caught sight of her name tag: AMY MARTIN. Oh. "May I offer you any refreshments? Coffee, juice, champagne?"

It hardly seemed an appropriate time for celebrating, so I just asked her for a mug of herbal tea. She looked almost disappointed at my simple request but gave it to me in a scarily efficient manner. Moments later, I was wrapping my hands around the delicate china cup, warmth seeping into my chilled bones as Roland pushed the button for the elevator.

"Hold up!"