— What is this? — I watch as my beloved carelessly throws a stack of money on the table.
— Moral damages, — he says, indifferent and precise. — We’re breaking up. Don’t look for me.
He leaves. I cry and I can’t believe it. And the next day, seeing a photo of his wedding on my phone, I whisper “I hate you, you traitor” and squeeze in my palm the test with two lines that I never managed to show him.
* Seven years later, Demid Adarov bursts back into my life. Rich and domineering, he demands that I become his mistress. Only he doesn’t know that I have a reason to fight him to the very end. Seven years old—and he looks exactly like him, like two drops of water.