Nikolai's POV She reached into the drawer of the ornate side table beside her chair, her movements deliberate, almost theatrical, as if she was savoring the drama. Out came a sealed manila envelope. She slid it across the low coffee table between us, her manicured nails—painted a deep, blood-red—tapping lightly on the surface. "Vzglyani, Nikolai," she said in Russian, her voice still laced with that mocking lilt. "Ya dumayu, eto tebya zainteresuyet." (Take a look, Nikolai. I think this will interest you.)I didn't move at first, staring at the envelope like it was a venomous snake. But I couldn't act like I was scared and so, I snatched it up, ripping it open with more force than necessary, the paper tearing under my fingers.Inside were photos printed with clarity. The first one made me want to throw up: Aiden, my Aiden, captured in a candid shot on campus, his dark hair tousled by the wind, that easy, handsome smile lighting up his face as he laughed at something off-camera.He
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