Perhaps that was why he believed our daughter’s life had no value either.
When Sofia’s face surfaced in my mind, tears finally gathered in my eyes.
I looked at him and said quietly, “Sign the divorce. Sofia won’t trouble you again. She doesn’t need forgiveness, because she never did anything wrong.”
Her only misfortune was being born into the Volkov crime family.
My refusal to back down darkened his expression.
“I’ve had enough,” he snapped. “I brought you a gift and you still want more? Sofia isn’t a toddler anymore, and you’re threatening divorce over discipline? Let me warn you now, if you leave, don’t even think about taking custody. I’ve been more than generous to you.”
Generous.
The word echoed mockingly in the room.
After venting his anger, he turned and walked toward the bedroom, as if this argument were nothing more than one of our usual quarrels. For ten years, whenever he lost his temper, I was the one who softened first. I would cook his favorite dishes, wait beside him, and allow the silence to dissolve on its own.
He likely believed this would be no different.
He would sleep, wake up, and find me in the kitchen like always.
But this time, there would be no reconciliation.