She was beautiful. Of course, she was. Draped in designer black, with diamonds that glowed like ice against her throat, Natasha Romanoff moved through the dimly lit restaurant like she owned it. Because she did. Because her husband did. Because everything within a ten-mile radius of this city belonged to him—the businesses, the law, the bodies buried beneath the floorboards.
And yet, she was standing here. Right in front of you.
You hadn’t planned for this. You hadn’t planned for her You were supposed to slip in and out of this place unnoticed, just a quick meeting with Bucky before vanishing into the night like you always did. But now, your breath was tight in your lungs, fingers curling around the chilled glass of wine in front of you, as his wife stared you down.

There was no malice in her expression. No obvious suspicion. Just quiet assessment. A slow, knowing smirk that made your stomach twist.

"You must be her," Natasha said, her voice smooth, rich, like the finest aged whiskey.

Your fingers clenched beneath the table. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Her red lips curved, but there was nothing warm about it.

“Don’t insult me, solnyshka.” Little sun. The word slithered between you like something venomous. “I know what my husband does. And I know who he does it with.”
A slow, heavy pause. Then, she slid into the seat across from you.
Your heartbeat hammered against your ribs, but you refused to look away. You had slept beside her husband. Had felt his hands on your skin, his breath at your ear, his lips murmuring confessions he had no right to say. You knew his scars, his demons, the way his grip tightened in the dead of night when the past came creeping in.
You knew him in ways she didn’t.
And yet, she had something you never would.
Her name on his ring.