Chapter 4 Sergey

Sergey woke up from a nap he had taken in his office. He had just returned from a grueling business trip to Japan and had come straight to work, barely managing to stay awake long enough to sit on the couch. He hated how far the house was from the office. Before marrying Helena Morrison, he lived in a bachelor pad just two minutes away from his workplace. The marriage, initially a convenience to gain access to the Morrison fortune, had come with unexpected burdens. Sergey resented how it had eroded his freedom.

He sighed and stretched, feeling the tension in his muscles from sleeping in an awkward position. Deciding he needed a shower to shake off the lingering grogginess, he headed to the bathroom. The hot water was refreshing, washing away the fatigue and the remnants of his jet lag. As he dried off, he grabbed his personal phone, scrolling through the notifications.

One message caught his eye: a friend had planned a big party for later that day. The friend had invited two models, and Sergey was particularly intrigued by the mention of a French one. He smiled to himself, already imagining the fun he could have at the party. He needed to get out of the house, to feel like himself again, even if just for a night.

Dressed in lighter, more casual clothes, he made his way downstairs. The house was quiet, the only sound being the distant hum of the refrigerator. As he passed the kitchen, he noticed Helena standing by the counter, her curvy body wrapped in oversized pajamas despite it being six o'clock in the afternoon. She was staring intently at a water bottle, her expression blank and distant.

Sergey felt a pang of irritation. "Are you okay?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. Helena looked up at him, her eyes reddish and puffy. She seemed lost, as if she was looking through him rather than at him.

"I don't know what's real and what's not," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She picked up the water bottle and walked past him without another word.

Sergey stood there, frozen. He didn't usually pay attention to what Helena said, but something about her tone sent a chill down his spine. He shrugged it off, convincing himself it was just the remnants of jet lag playing tricks on him. He had more important things to focus on, like the upcoming party.

He spent the next hour going over some work emails and making calls, trying to immerse himself in his usual routine. But Helena's words kept echoing in his mind, nagging at the back of his thoughts. Finally, he decided he needed to get out of the house, to shake off the strange feeling that had settled over him.

As he got ready to leave the house, he couldn't help but admire his reflection one last time. He knew he looked good-handsome, even. His dark blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and tall, lean body had always drawn attention, sometimes more than he cared for. There were times when he felt like no woman wanted to talk to him for who he was, but rather for what he looked like. He sighed, pushing those thoughts aside as he grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs.

His driver, a silent man married to the housekeeper, was waiting for him by the car. Sergey nodded at him as he slid into the back seat, feeling the familiar hum of the engine as they pulled out of the garage. The city lights blurred past, a soft glow in the gathering dusk.

As they navigated through the streets, the driver broke the usual silence. "Sir, Mrs. Novikov came back from a medical appointment this morning," he said, his eyes fixed on the road. "She's been acting a bit strange since then. Usually, she would go for a walk or head to the charity office to work, but today she stayed home."

Sergey turned his gaze from the window, his interest piqued and a bit of irritation creeping in. "What do you mean, strange?"

The driver hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "She seemed... withdrawn. Lost in her thoughts. It's not like her."

Sergey frowned. The driver was not one to comment on personal matters unless he found something genuinely concerning. "Did she say anything to you?"

"No, sir. She was quiet all day."

A knot of unease formed in Sergey's stomach. He knew Helena was a sickly girl, but he had become so accustomed to her presence in the background of his life that he rarely gave her health much thought. But now, hearing this, he couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

"Turn around," he said abruptly.

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Sir?"

"Turn around," Sergey repeated. "I need to talk to her first, before I go anywhere."

The driver nodded and manoeuvred the car through a series of turns, heading back toward the house. Sergey sat back, his mind racing. He thought about Helena's recent behavior, her distant expression that afternoon, and the strange, unsettling feeling that had lingered since then.

The car pulled into the driveway, and Sergey stepped out, feeling the cool evening air against his skin. He walked quickly to the door, determination in his stride. He needed to talk to Helena, to figure out what was happening with her, and make sure she was not in the middle of some mental breakdown. Her words kept haunting him.

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Sergey looked around the house for Helena, feeling a mix of frustration and concern. The driver's words lingered in his mind, making him uneasy. He finally found her in a corner of the second living room, sitting motionless on a plush armchair. She seemed lost in her thoughts, staring blankly at the wall, not even acknowledging his presence.

"Helena?" he called out, trying to get her attention. She didn't respond. He stepped closer and called her name again, a bit louder this time. Still, no reaction.

Growing impatient, he made a snarky remark. "You really scared the staff today, you know that?"

Helena slowly turned her head to look at him, her expression detached. Then, a strange smile spread across her face, and she spoke softly, almost as if she was speaking to herself. "I want a divorce, Sergey."

Sergey was stunned. Divorce was not an option. They had to stay married for at least another six years according to the contract he had signed with her father. The agreement was filled with stipulations, trapping him in this loveless marriage. His initial shock quickly turned into anger, but he tried to keep his composure.

"We can't get divorced, Helena," he said, his voice strained. "You know that."

She continued to smile, but there was a hardness in her eyes. "I can," she said simply. "I can divorce you for cheating."

Sergey's arrogance faded. He had been sure she had agreed to their arrangement years ago. He had kept his mistresses discreet, believing it was an unspoken understanding between them. He was a healthy 35-year-old man, and they both agreed on their wedding night that they would live separate lives despite being married.

Helena rose from her seat and walked closer to him. Her eyes were puffy and red, and her hair was disheveled, but there was a steely resolve in her gaze that Sergey hadn't seen before. "I'm tired of loving you from afar," she whispered, her voice filled with a mix of determination and pain.

Sergey was surprised. He had never considered that she had any real feelings for him. To him, this marriage had always been a business transaction. "Helena, you've filled your head with fantasies. This was always a financial business decision. You knew I didn't like you that way. We needed the fusion between our companies."

Her eyes flashed with anger. "Fantasies? Maybe, but those were all I had. I thought maybe, just maybe, we could find something real. But you've shown me time and time again that you don't care."

He tried to calm her down, realising how precarious their situation was. "Think about all the people who were working for your father and now work for me. If we divorce, what happens to them?"

Helena stopped for a second, considering his words, but then shook her head. "None of those people are my family. I don't care about them."

Sergey felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. This was not the frail, compliant Helena he was used to. This was a woman who had reached her breaking point, and he didn't know how to handle it. "Helena, listen," he started, trying to find the right words. "We can work something out. There's no need to talk about divorce."

She shook her head, her smile fading. "There's nothing to work out, Sergey. I'm done with this charade. I want my life back, whatever's left of it."

Sergey was at a loss. For the first time, he realised how little he knew about his wife. He had always seen her as a means to an end, a tool to secure his financial future and social standing. But now, faced with her resolute stance, he realised she was much more than that. She was a person with her own desires and limits, and she had reached hers.

"Helena, I... I didn't know you felt this way," he admitted, feeling a pang of guilt. "I thought we had an understanding."

Her eyes flashed with anger. "An understanding? You thought it was acceptable to treat me like a doormat while you paraded your mistresses around?"

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He had been so wrapped up in his own world, his own desires, that he had completely neglected the woman he had married. He had ignored her pain, her suffering, and now she was standing before him, demanding her freedom.

"Helena, I'm sorry," he said, the words feeling inadequate even as he spoke them. "I know I've been a terrible husband, but we can try to make things right. We can at least try to be friends."

She shook her head again, her expression resolute. "It's too late for that, Sergey. I don't need your pity or your belated attempts at being a good person. I need my freedom. I need to live whatever life I have left on my own terms."

Sergey felt a surge of anger and frustration. He was trapped by the contract, by the expectations of her father and their social circle. But more than that, he was trapped by his own guilt and the realisation of how badly he had treated her, she extended her hand in friendship but he ignored her multiple times over the years. "What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion.

Helena took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his. "I want a divorce, and I want you to leave me alone. I'll handle the rest."

Sergey knew he had no choice. He could see the determination in her eyes, the unwavering resolve that told him she was serious. "Fine," he said quietly. "If that's what you want."

"It is," she replied, her voice firm.

As she walked away, Sergey felt a crushing sense of loss. He stood there, watching her retreating form, knowing that things would never be the same again, his company could loose everything.

As he made his way back to his room, he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled over him. For the first time, he understood the true cost of his actions, and it terrified him.

His phone rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. His friends were waiting for him at the party. He stared at the phone for a moment, then silenced it. He couldn't think about partying now. He needed to figure out what to do next, how to salvage whatever was left of this mess.