Chapter 5. The Strategic Retreat (and the Final Bomb)

The door opened for the third time.

This time it wasn't a doctor or a patriarch. It was a tall, thin woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun and an expression that promised blood.

Olga Sitik. Branko's older sister. Ana's favorite child (because Branko was the heir, but Olga was the companion). Licensed in criminal law, specializing in making other people's lives miserable.

"Brother," Olga said, striding toward the bed with firm steps. "I already called the police."

Silence.

Branko blinked.

"The police? What for?"

"To investigate," Olga said, firing a loaded glance at Natalia. "This could've been an attack. Someone who benefits from you being dead."

Natalia, who'd been about to sit in the only free chair, froze mid-motion.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice like ice. "Are you looking at me?"

Olga smiled. The smile of a lawyer who knows she's holding all the cards.

"I didn't name any names. You put the shoe on yourself."

"I didn't put on anything," Natalia shot back. "But if you're alluding to me, say it plainly. I don't like cheap theater."

"Fine," Olga said, crossing her arms. "I'll speak plainly. You wanted the divorce, right? My brother didn't sign. Days later he's in an accident. Very suspicious."

Natalia stared at her. One second. Two. And then she burst out laughing. A genuine laugh — the kind that's born from pure absurdity.

"Me?" she said, wiping away a fake tear. "I was going to kill your brother? Why? To keep his share of the company? I already have mine, and it's bigger. To inherit something? I don't need his money. To keep his collection of ugly ties? No, thanks."

Olga clenched her jaw.

"Financial motive isn't the only kind. There's also crimes of passion."

"Oh, really?" Natalia tilted her head, as if Olga were a curious insect. "And what would mine be? Love? Because if I wanted your brother dead, I'd have done it on the honeymoon. Trust me, I had opportunities. Plenty. I didn't because I'm not interested in going to prison. Orange isn't my color."

"Dead,* Natalia thought, while Branko listened with his eyes the size of saucers. *It'd suit me if he were dead... but I haven't even slept with him. The idiot hasn't given me a single roll in the sheets. Down... dead... although..."

Olga kept talking, but Branko had stopped listening to her. He was only listening to Natalia.

"First I'd kidnap him, have my way with him, enjoy his body until I'm tired of it... and then dump him somewhere for someone to rescue. That's productive. Dead? What for? Too much legal hassle" paperwork, lawyers, depositions, the wake, the burial... no, no. Let him stay alive. Alive is more fun. And hotter. Especially when he's angry. God, why do I have to be in love with a man who doesn't even look at me?

Branko went blank.

Completely blank.

"Brother?" Olga said, touching his shoulder. "Did you hear me? I'm going to file a restraining order against Natalia. For your safety."

"No," Branko replied, his voice hoarse. "You're not doing anything."

"But—"

"I said no, Olga."

Natalia watched them both, oblivious that her mind had been an open book. How cute they look, fighting over me,* she thought. It's like a soap opera, but with better clothes.*

Ana, seeing that her son wasn't cooperating, changed tactics. She placed a hand on Natalia's shoulder (Natalia, who hated being touched, didn't move out of pure good manners) and spoke with a voice of false conciliation:

"Natalia, dear, I know this is hard for everyone. But maybe we could talk at another time. As a family. Without doctors in the middle."

"I'm not your family," Natalia replied, stepping away from the hand with a subtle movement. "And I never was. You bought my last name, not my affection."

"You're cruel," Olga said.

"I'm honest," Natalia answered. "It hurts more, I know. But at least I don't pretend."

And then, right before leaving, Natalia turned toward Branko. Looked him in the eye. And said:

"Keep seeing Valeria. Have a great time. Screw whoever you want. But don't forget the divorce is still on the table. I'll be waiting at my office Monday. Bring a pen."

"Oh, and by the way,* Natalia thought as she walked toward the door, *the apartment he gave Little Miss Perfect is in my name too. Half of it. So tell her to start packing her little things, because the eviction notice drops in two days. Kisses on her ass."

Branko sat on the bed, bandage on his head, gaze lost, with a single certainty in his chest:

"I'm not getting divorced," he whispered to himself. "Not a chance."

"What'd you say, son?" Ana asked.

"Nothing, Mom."

"Does your head hurt? Should I call the doctor?"

"No. Leave me alone."

Ana, Vladimir, and Olga exchanged glances. Then, with the clumsiness of people who don't know how to retreat without losing dignity, they left the room.

The door closed.

Branko was alone.

He closed his eyes. And smiled.

Because he'd just discovered that his indifferent wife wasn't indifferent at all. She was crazy. A gossip. A pervert. A ruthless strategist. And she was terribly, madly, stupidly in love with him.

"This is going to be fun," he murmured.

Outside, in the hallway, Natalia walked toward the exit. Her heels went tap-tap-tap on the marble floor. And her mind, unaware that her husband could hear her, continued its monologue:

"Branko Sitik, you're an idiot. But you're MY idiot. And I'm not sharing you with anyone. Even though I hate you when you die. And love you when you breathe. What a mess. I need chocolate."

Branko was signing the discharge papers when Natalia walked into the hospital room with a black handbag — the oversized kind that looks like a small trunk.

"What's that?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Clothes," she replied, dropping the bag on the bed with a sharp thud. "So you can change."

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