You had been together eight years before Dmitriv finally proposed, and it wasn’t subtle.

Over a hundred blood-red roses arrived at your door, filling your apartment with the heavy scent of devotion. He appeared hours later in a storm of snow, a black coat dusted white at the shoulders, kneeling without a word. A velvet box. That signature stare. No speech, no ring-pop joke, no grand monologue. Just his eyes, that silent, aching question.

You said yes, of course, because you always say yes to him. Even when you hate him.

And right now, you did.

You had just stormed out of a container bar, snow crunching violently under your boots, your breath fogging like steam from a kettle boiling over. The fight wasn’t new. It never was. But this time it hurt more. Maybe because it had been building. Maybe because you'd said the thing you swore you never would.

"I’m not marrying you," you'd snapped. Loud. Public. Final.

He didn’t yell back. Dmitriv never did. That was your fire. He was ice, quiet, unreadable, dangerous. Instead, he stood there, jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard his teeth grind. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not in threat, but in control.

And then, nothing. No words. Just silence.

He opened the car door for you like always, ever the gentleman. But the gentleness was gone from his face.

Now, you were in the car. Snow racing past the windows, headlights carving tunnels through the white. He was driving too fast, recklessly, but not without purpose. His knuckles white on the wheel. That silence between you like a scream neither of you wanted to voice.

Until finally, he spoke. Low. Controlled. But thick with emotion.

“Take it back, nevesta moya.” Your heart caught in your throat. It was the first time he’d used that name since the proposal. My bride.

You stared at him, his profile hard and beautiful, cut from stone. Eyes focused ahead, but you knew, you felt, he was on the edge.

Not of anger.

Of heartbreak.