My finger hovered over Dimitri Ambramov’s name, frozen in place, while my entire body shook like it knew what this call would cost me. I had sworn—promised myself—I would never reach out to him again. Not in this life. Not ever. I had chosen a smaller existence with Dominic, one built on caution and compromise, hollow and poisonous but predictable. I told myself that was enough. That was my punishment and my reward.
But this wasn’t about me anymore.
This was about Ethan.
I pressed call.
“Dimitri… it’s me. Vivienne.”
There was a pause on the other end. Not silence—control.
“Vivienne,” he repeated slowly, drawing the name out as if it carried flavor, memory, and judgment all at once.
My voice shook apart. “Please. I’m begging you. It’s Ethan—my son. He’s been kidnapped. They’re asking for a billion. Please… help me.”
A soft laugh slipped through the line. Not amused. Curious.
“So,” he said calmly, “you finally remembered my number because you’re cornered.”
He didn’t sound angry. He sounded like a man inspecting damage.
“I’m in New York,” he continued. “Expanding. Buying. I own more than you ever knew I would. Over a hundred companies. Assets that feed entire cities. Tell me—why should I lift a finger for the woman who traded me in for comfort and gold?”
The past struck me like a blow.
Eight years ago—before contracts and white roses, before the marriage that had felt like both rescue and execution—there had been Dimitri and me. Young enough to believe love alone could shield us. I remembered rain that smelled metallic against the pavement, his hands rough from work I never fully understood, the way he held me like the future was something we could build if we held on hard enough.
I remembered the night my father’s men dragged him into an alley and beat him until his words turned into broken sounds. I remembered Dimitri begging me not to marry Dominic, his voice hoarse with fear—not for himself, but for his mother, his sister. He said my father would destroy them all if I refused.
I remembered the promise ring warming my palm, still carrying his heat. He had grabbed my legs and begged me to run away with him. God, I wanted to. But I knew my father too well. So I chose survival. I told Dimitri he was poor. That he couldn’t give me the life I needed. I told him he smelled like dirt and debt and threw the ring into the mud.
He picked it up and cried.
He asked me one question—why—and I never answered.
“You remember that night, don’t you?” Dimitri said now, his voice tightly leashed. “You left me standing in the rain. You chose a life that fed you and poisoned you at the same time. You chose it.”
“I know,” I said quietly.
I wanted to tell him that I had regretted it in a thousand silent ways. That every night beside Dominic had felt like penance. But there was no room for confession now. Only Ethan. Only the memory of his screams.
“Tell me what happened,” Dimitri said at last. “Quickly. And don’t lie.”
I told him everything. The frozen account. The ransom clock. Dominic’s cruelty. The words spilled out messy and desperate, each detail laid bare like an offering.
The silence afterward stretched so long my throat ached from holding my breath.
“And you expect me,” Dimitri finally said, “to cross oceans because your husband is a monster and your past decisions have come collecting their debt? Why should I save a child you trapped in a gilded cage?”
I closed my eyes and saw him the way he once was—standing on a pier, city lights behind him, his hands firm on my face like the world could still be shaped.
“Because I’m asking,” I whispered. “That has to mean something.”
“It doesn’t,” he replied evenly. “You shattered me. You chose safety and left me bleeding in the street. If I save him, what do I receive in return? How will you pay?”
Fear crawled into my mouth and dried it shut.
Dimitri Ambramov wasn’t just powerful—he was feared. Men changed loyalties when his name surfaced. Borders bent for him. Laws softened. He didn’t destroy recklessly; he claimed what he wanted and kept it.
“You,” I said finally. “You can take me. I’ll repay you with myself. Use me. Hurt me if you want. Make me your servant, your slave—anything. Just bring my son back alive.”
I heard him inhale softly, like someone opening a book they’d been waiting years to read.
I expected laughter. Disconnection.
Instead, his voice came back calm, icy.
“Then it’s settled. I will save your son. And afterward, you will belong to me again. Every part of you. Everything you denied me.”
Tears slid down my face, hot and unashamed. I hadn’t known I could still bargain like this—trade myself for the life bound to mine by blood. But the truth was mercilessly clear. I had chosen safety once and lost my heart for it.
This time, I chose differently.
“I agree,” I said. “Please. Bring him home.”
“Good,” Dimitri replied. “Don’t contact me again unless you intend to honor our agreement.”
The call ended.
---
Eight hours later, they finally dragged me out. One of Dominic’s men shoved me toward the car and said flatly, “Boss says go home. Start cooking.”
Cooking.
As if I hadn’t been locked in darkness while my son screamed on a screen.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message—from Dimitri.
A location. A hospital name. A room number.
My knees nearly gave out.
