Chapter 4: The Penthouse Confrontation
The apartment was still dark when the door slammed open.
Leonid heard it from the bedroom, the sharp crack of the lock giving way, the furious click of stilettos against the marble floor. He didn't move. He lay on the bed, still in his tuxedo, the fabric wrinkled and twisted from hours of staring at the ceiling. His phone sat dark and silent on the nightstand, a monument to the words he had sent into the void.
"Leonid!"
Her voice cut through the darkness like a blade. He heard her moving through the apartment, the sound of her footsteps growing closer, more frantic. The bedroom door flew open, and she stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim glow of the city beyond the windows.
She was still in her gown—a red silk number that clung to every curve. Her hair was wild, escaping the updo she had worn to the gala, and her eyes were wide, glittering with a mix of fury and something that looked almost like fear.
"Don't you ignore me," she said, her voice shaking. "Don't you dare."
He sat up slowly, his movements deliberate, measured. He looked at her—really looked at her—and for a moment, he felt nothing at all. The numbness had settled in during the long hours of waiting, a protective cocoon that kept the pain at bay.
"I'm not ignoring you," he said. His voice was calm, flat. "I sent you a message."
"I got your message." She stepped into the room, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. " 'We need to talk.' What the hell is that supposed to mean? You couldn't call me? You couldn't tell me what's going on?"
"You know what's going on."
She stopped, her chin lifting in that defiant way she had, the way she looked at the world when it dared to challenge her. "I know what the media is saying. I know what those vultures are spinning. But I don't know why you would believe them over me."
Leonid stood. The movement was slow, almost reluctant, like a man rising to face a firing squad. He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away, close enough to see the rapid pulse fluttering at her throat.
"I saw the footage," he said. "I saw you with him."
"Charles is a business associate."
"You touched his arm."
"So what? I touch everyone's arm. It's how I connect with people."
"You smiled at him like you smile at me."
Her eyes flashed. The fear was gone, replaced by the familiar spark of anger that always simmered beneath her surface. "So now you're policing my smiles? Is that what this is? You're going to turn into some jealous, controlling—"
"I'm not jealous," he cut in, his voice sharp. "I'm hurt. There's a difference."
The words hung between them, heavy and charged. She stared at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. For a moment, she looked like she might crumble, like the weight of everything might finally break through the armor she wore.
But then the mask slipped back into place.
"Oh, you're hurt?" Her laugh was bitter, cruel. "You're hurt? Try being me, Leonid. Try having every move I make dissected by the press. Try having your boyfriend accuse you of cheating because you smiled at a colleague during a business dinner."
"Jennie—"
"No." She held up a hand, her eyes blazing. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to sit here and judge me when you've been distant for weeks. When you've been so wrapped up in your own world, in your shoots and your campaigns, that you forgot I exist."
"It was one dinner," he said, his voice low. "You didn't tell me about it."
"I don't have to tell you about every meeting I have."
"You're my fiancée."
"And you're my fiancé. That doesn't mean I owe you a play-by-play of my schedule."
He took a step closer, his jaw tight. "It means I deserve to know when you're having dinner with a man you've been photographed with before. A man who's been linked to you in the tabloids for months."
Her laugh was sharp, cutting. "Oh, so now you're reading the tabloids? Give me a break."
"Jennie, I saw the way he looked at you."
"And how was that?"
"Like he wanted you."
She stared at him, her lips parting. For a moment, the mask cracked. He saw a flash of something—regret, shame, fear—before she shut it down, her expression hardening into stone.
"You're being paranoid," she said. "Nothing happened."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I knew you'd react like this! Because I knew you'd take some innocent dinner and twist it into something sordid and ugly." Her voice was rising, the familiar edge of hysteria creeping in. "God, Leonid, I can't breathe around you. You're always watching, always waiting for me to screw up."
He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "I've never done anything but support you."
"Support me? You think smothering me is support?"
"Smothering you?" His voice cracked, the numbness finally giving way to something raw and bleeding. "I've spent years taking care of you, Jennie. Years. I've held you when you couldn't hold yourself. I've absorbed every punch, every slap, every hateful word you've thrown at me. And you think that's smothering you?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
She blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "What are you talking about?"
He looked at her, really looked at her, and felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. The bruises that had faded from his skin but not from his memory. The nights he had lain awake, wondering if he was helping her or enabling her. The quiet, desperate hope that one day she would see him, truly see him, and realize what she was doing.
But she didn't see. She never saw.
"You don't remember," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You never do."
Her brow furrowed. "Remember what? Leonid, what are you saying?"
He shook his head, turning away from her. He couldn't look at her anymore. Couldn't look at the confusion on her face, the genuine lack of recognition. She didn't know. She would never know.
"Nothing," he said. "Forget it."
"No." She grabbed his arm, her grip firm. "You don't get to drop hints and walk away. I want to know what you're talking about."
He turned, and she let go, stepping back. Her eyes were wild, darting across his face like she was searching for something she couldn't find.
"You hit me," he said. "Sometimes you hit me. Sometimes you scream at me, call me names, tell me I'm worthless, that I'm a failure. You don't remember it afterward. You don't remember any of it."
Her face went pale. "That's... that's not true."
"It is true, Jennie. It's been true for years."
"I would never—" She shook her head, backing away from him. "You're lying. You're making this up to make me feel guilty."
"I'm not making anything up." His voice was tired, hollow. "I have the scars to prove it."
She stared at him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He could see the war playing out behind her eyes—the denial, the confusion, the desperate need to believe that he was wrong, that she wasn't the monster he was describing.
And then, like a storm breaking, the violence came.
"You're lying!" she screamed, lunging at him. Her fists connected with his chest, his shoulders, his arms. Not the playful, flirty hits of a woman teasing her man. These were hard, frantic blows, driven by pure rage.
"Say it! Say you're lying!"
He didn't move. He stood still, taking each hit, letting her beat against him like waves against a cliff. Her blows grew weaker with each second, her sobs strangling her fury.
"You can't do this to me, Leonid," she cried, her voice cracking. "You can't make me the bad guy when you're the one who—"
She swung again, her palm connecting with his cheek. The slap echoed through the room, sharp and final.
And something in him snapped.
He grabbed her wrists, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop her. She struggled against his grip, her eyes wild, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Let go of me," she hissed.
"No."
"Let me go!"
"Look at me, Jennie."
She fought against him, twisting and pulling, but he held her steady until her struggles began to fade. Her chest heaved, her lips trembling, and then the fight drained out of her. She went limp in his grasp, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered. "Why are you trying to destroy us?"
"I'm not trying to destroy anything," he said. "I'm trying to save what's left."
She stared at him, her eyes searching his face. And for a moment, just a moment, he thought she might finally see. Might finally understand the depth of his pain, the weight of his sacrifice.
But then her gaze hardened, and she pulled away.
"Save it," she said, her voice cold. "I don't need you to save me."
She turned and stormed out of the bedroom, her heels clicking a furious rhythm against the floor. He followed her, driven by something he didn't fully understand, a need to bridge the gap that was growing between them.
She stopped in the living room, her hands shaking as she pressed them against her temples. "Just leave me alone, Leonid. Just for one night."
"No."
She whirled around. "What?"
"I said no." He walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate. "I've been leaving you alone for years. I've been patient. I've been understanding. I've absorbed every blow and swallowed every word, and I've done it all because I love you."
"But not anymore?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what are you saying?"
He stopped in front of her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, to see the rapid flutter of her pulse.
"I'm saying I'm tired of watching you push me away. I'm tired of being the only one fighting for us. I'm tired of loving you when you won't let me in."
Her lip curled. "And what are you going to do about it?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached out, his hands closing around her hips. She stiffened, her eyes widening, but she didn't pull away. He turned her, not gently, not with the careful tenderness he usually showed, but with a roughness that felt foreign.
Before she could protest, he bent her over the back of the leather couch, her torso pressed against the cool surface, her hips raised to meet his.
"Leonid—"
"Shut up."
The words came out harsh, guttural, a sound he didn't recognize. He pushed her gown up over her hips, revealing the lace of her underwear. He heard her gasp, felt her body tense beneath his hands.
"Please," she whispered, but she didn't mean it. He knew she didn't mean it.
He pulled her underwear aside and entered her in one brutal thrust.
She cried out, her fingers clawing at the leather, her body arching against him. But she didn't tell him to stop. She didn't push him away. She pushed back, meeting his rhythm with a ferocity that matched his own.
He moved inside her with hard, mechanical strokes, no tenderness, no care. This wasn't about love. This wasn't about connection. This was about taking, claiming, demanding what she had been withholding from him.
Her moans filled the room, punctuated by his grunts, the sound of their bodies colliding in the cold, dark silence of the penthouse.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. "Is this what you wanted?" he growled. "Is this what you've been waiting for?"
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes."
He drove into her harder, his grip on her hips bruising, his body slick with sweat. The anger pumped through him, hot and relentless, feeding the fire that had been burning in his chest all night.
She came with a cry, her body shuddering around him, and the feel of her—the warmth, the tightness, the surrender—pushed him over the edge. He spilled into her with a groan, his body trembling, his forehead pressed against her shoulder blade.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The silence was deafening, broken only by their ragged breath and the distant hum of the city below.
He pulled out of her slowly, his body feeling heavy, foreign. She straightened, her gown falling back into place, and turned to face him.
Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks flushed, her lipstick smeared. She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and something else—something that looked almost like satisfaction, or guilt, or both.
"Leonid—" she started.
"No." He held up a hand, his voice raw. "Don't."
He turned and walked out of the living room, leaving her standing in the moonlight, her body still trembling, their combined scent hanging in the air.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and he braced himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
He had never touched her like that. He had never been so rough, so angry, so completely lost.
But he didn't feel sorry for it.
He felt the first flicker of something dangerous, something that had been buried under years of patience and devotion. It was dark and unfamiliar, and it whispered in the back of his mind with a voice that sounded a lot like his own.
You can't fix her, Leonid. You can only lose yourself trying.
He turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face, but the heat in his blood didn't cool.
And somewhere in the other room, he heard the sound of Jennie crying.