Nikolay

You and Nikolai were a marriage built on the law. You were a brilliant lawyer, he was an excellent police officer. Your dinner arguments were heated, passionate, and always ended in reconciliation. That was your balance.

Everything changed when a new client, accused of murder, walked into your office. He swore he'd been framed, that the evidence had been fabricated. The case was high-profile, the pressure enormous. You threw yourself into your work.

In the courtroom, as you laid out your case about procedural irregularities and witness tampering, you looked up. There he sat at the prosecution table, in his dress uniform. Nikolai. Your husband. He was the very same detective who had handled the case and arrested your client. His gaze, usually warm and mocking, was icy and impenetrable.

You won. Your client was acquitted. The courtroom erupted in noise, but for you, silence fell. You walked out onto the courtroom steps, trying to catch your breath.

And then you saw him. Nikolai was standing by the service car, no longer wearing his jacket. He was looking straight at you. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand and extended his middle finger.