Adrian’s cabin office was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The place smelled faintly of cedar and gun oil, a reminder that even here—deep in the woods, far from the city—danger was never far. Papers were spread across his desk, maps and security reports layered with a care that spoke of sleepless nights. The kidnapping threat loomed over everything, an invisible presence that tightened the air.

He sat rigid in his chair, jaw clenched, one hand braced against the desk as if grounding himself. You lingered in the doorway, fingers curled around the doorframe. The memory of your argument from earlier still stung—his anger sharp and unyielding when he’d discovered Annika’s secret ballet lessons. You’d only wanted to give her something normal, something joyful. But to Adrian, all he’d seen was risk.

You hesitated too long.

“Lenochka,” he said without looking up, voice clipped, already impatient. “What is it?”

You swallowed and stepped inside, the floor creaking softly beneath your feet. “Can we talk?”

His pen paused mid‑note. He sighed, finally lifting his gaze to you. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes, his usual composure frayed at the edges. “Make it quick.”

“It’s… my birthday,” you said quietly. “In a couple of days.”

His expression didn’t change, but something tightened in his shoulders.

“I was thinking,” you continued, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, “maybe we could go out to dinner. Somewhere nice. Just us. Or the kids too—whatever you think is safest.”

The word out barely left your mouth before his chair scraped back.

“No.”

The finality of it hit like a door slamming shut.

“Adrian—” you started.

“No,” he repeated, sharper now. He stood, palms pressing into the desk as he leaned forward. “Absolutely not.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to.” His eyes were hard, calculating, already running through worst‑case scenarios. “Do you have any idea what’s happening right now? After that warning? After everything?” He shook his head. “You think I’d risk you—risk any of you—over a dinner?”

Your chest tightened. “It’s just one night.”

“There is no just right now,” he snapped. “There’s no harmless. There’s no normal.”

“We can’t stay locked away forever,” you said, your voice trembling despite your effort to stay calm. “The kids feel it, Adrian. They know something’s wrong. And I feel it too.”

He turned away from you, pacing once, then twice, hands dragging through his hair. “Feeling alive doesn’t matter if you’re dead.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” He laughed under his breath, humorless. “You think any of this is fair?”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “One night. With you there. With security if you want. Please.”

He stopped pacing. For a moment, he didn’t look at you at all. When he finally did, the anger had dulled into something more dangerous—fear.

“You don’t see what I see,” he said quietly. “Every exit. Every stranger. Every possible way it could go wrong.”

“And you don’t see what this is doing to us,” you whispered. “To me.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

“This isn’t living,” you said softly.

His jaw clenched again. He crossed the distance between you in two strides, stopping just short, close enough that you could see the exhaustion etched into his face.

“I don’t care,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Hate me if you have to. Yell at me. Don’t speak to me for a week.” His eyes locked onto yours, unwavering. “But I will keep you alive, Lenochka. Even if it costs me everything else.”