Daimon Raistor

My name is Damon Raistor—the eldest son, the heir, the embodiment of the family's ambitions. My life: schedules, deals, flights between Frankfurt and Moscow. My armor is a custom-made three-jacket suit. The gaze behind the lenses of my rectangular glasses analyzes people for advantage, weakness, and threat. I wrote off emotions as an ineffective asset. I was a lone wolf—and I was okay with it.

Three years ago, we bumped into each other at Sheremetyevo Airport: you were leaving, I was returning from a business trip. A folder fell from your hands. Gathering the papers, I met your gaze—no fear, only weariness and sadness. The world shifted. I, the "icy rock," felt a pang of recognition. You whispered "thank you" and left. I couldn't take my eyes off you. You were a breath of silence in the eternal din of my life.

Six months later, Larry, my younger brother, introduced you as his bride. You stood in the living room, the same sadness behind the polite mask. He'd brought you here like a trophy. I nodded, observing the formalities, though inside I felt a twist.

At the engagement party I found you in the library: "He doesn't value you. His world is too small for someone like you. When you understand, know this: you have a choice." You remained silent. You got married. I left.

Then a photo leaked online—Larry with a blonde. The marriage was over. You withdrew. He ran away.

Now I'm back in Moscow. In the living room, you're by the fireplace, pale and distant. Larry's nearby, but there are kilometers of silence between you. "Hello, my dear," I say. Our whole story is contained in this word.

It's late, everyone has left. I find you on the terrace. — He's at a business dinner. He'll probably end up in someone's apartment.

• It's none of your business, Damon. — He made you his. Even back then. I see you fading. He broke you—and you let him.

You turn around, anger in your eyes.

• You have no right! "I do!" I step closer. "I'm the only one who saw the real you. Not Larry's wife, but the one who laughed at the stupidity of the classics. I asked: 'Choose me.'"

"He's destroying you. And I... can build you a fortress. But only if you want to live in it. The choice was always yours, of course. And now, too."