BELLS
Valentin Volkov kissed my hand on a Tuesday in late January - the coldest day of the year, they said. But for the first time in months, I felt warm.
He was an unexpected sliver of hope in my world - this tall, dark-haired Russian. A potential investor expressing interest in Larssens, one of many these days, but something distinct about him. The manner of speaking, the hard consonants, the deep voice, and that smile deployed liberally, disarming me each time.
"Ms Hann," he said the first time we met. When I extended my hand to shake his, he took it gently, raised it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. Current shot up my arm, my skin breaking in goosebumps.
I was technically a Mrs, but in that moment I was especially glad I'd kept my maiden name. Glad, too, that my wedding ring sat on my left hand - in my trousers' pocket. The little hiding spot they granted, one advantage over the pencil skirts I'd long been forbidden to wear.
"You're blushing," Valentin said, soft smile reaching his eyes.
Such was my affliction - pale skin eager to display everything I tried to hide.
"Mr Volkov," I replied, leaving my hand in his. Our eyes locked, both dark and warm. Desire spread through me - unfamiliar after so long - making my fingers tingle where they still touched his skin.
Something about this man was electric. But unlike the electricity I once knew with Jude - all voltage and surveillance - this felt safe. His attention felt chosen, not controlling. Addictive in its warmth.
We discussed the terms of his investment, vastly unfair by Jude's design, structured to extract maximum value while offering minimum equity. I'd pitched these terms to dozen investors who'd balked.
But Valentin just smiled. His eyes never left mine. Not looking at the contract. Looking at me.
"Please... Ms Hann. Give me your work number. I would like to stay in touch... regarding this investment. You create good feeling in me for this... venture."
He picked his words carefully. I gave him my number - but my personal one, not work. I'd long suspected Jude monitored all work communications: emails, browser sessions, likely phone records. I wanted something that was just mine. A small indulgence. Surely I was allowed some attention, some care, something tender.
Valentin messaged me right after he left. I saved his number as "Penny" - my sister - though it proved unnecessary. The messages came morning, day, and night. I'd reply in stolen moments: bathroom breaks, in my office with door locked, once in the car while Jude ran into a shop.
"You have beautiful mind, Ms Hann."
I read that one three times, something warm unfurling in my chest.
"Please, is too formal between us. You can call me Valentin. And I will call you... what do you prefer?"
No one had asked me what I preferred in months.
"I believe in your vision, Isabelle."
Then: "I must confess something. I am not thinking about investment terms right now. Only about how I can make you smile again."
It was innocent, I told myself. Just messages. Just conversation. It made me feel seen. And Jude hadn't even noticed, hadn't mentioned it once - his raging workaholism consuming him, mind a thousand miles away even when he fucked me. Using my body for stress relief the way he'd use the gym or whiskey. I could have been anyone.
Valentin suggested we meet again. Then again. Always in person - my office, or better yet, business lunches. When I saw myself reflected in his eyes, I looked radiant. Soft. Peaceful.
Then one lunch he'd extend his hand across the table, covering mine.
"In Moscow, if man likes woman, he tells her. Here in London, everyone is playing games." His thumb traced my knuckles. "I prefer honest way. I like you very much."
My heart nearly stopped. We'd never kissed, never even held hands walking. His fingers brushed mine and I couldn't help but smile. I glanced at my left hand resting on my thigh beneath the table - at the faint tan line where my wedding ring had sat that very morning.
"I... I need to go," I said, blushing.
He stood as I did, helped me into my outerwear, then pulled on his own - a long navy coat with prominent gold buttons, some functional, some decorative. He looked like a general from another era.
"I am sorry if I overstepped, Isabelle. I just find I think about you constantly."
"It's fine," I said warmly. "I just need air. To think. Lunch next week?"
He nodded, ever the gentleman, eyes kind and deep enough to drown in.
What would I tell him next week? I didn't know. I only knew I didn't want this to end - didn't want to lose his care, his attention, the tenderness that made me feel something I'd almost forgotten. To feel loved and desired as a woman, not valued as a business asset with measurable utility. To be cherished rather than invisible except when my husband was tense and erect.
I knew this was dangerous. Knew I was playing with fire. But I'd been so cold for so long that burning seemed preferable to freezing.
But Jude surprised me.
Valentine's Day came. I found a note on the kitchen table alongside a Dior-branded shopping bag - must have left it before heading to the office. Yes, even on a Saturday. The only time he could "focus on actual work" without meetings, he said.
The note read:
"Taking you out tonight. 7pm sharp. Anette picked your dress and earrings—in the bag. Wear the black Louboutins, the 4-inch ones. Hair up. No jewellery except what's provided and your wedding ring. Love you, J"
Commanding. Cold. Even the "Love you" felt perfunctory.
Yet for just a moment, something warm flickered in my chest. He'd remembered. He was trying.
I already had texts from Valentin. I set my phone face-down, guilt washing over me. I knew what they'd be: sweet words, kindness, compliments. Passages from Russian poets, like the one he'd sent last night.
"You know Akhmatova? She said, 'Tell me how men kiss you, tell me how you kiss.' I am thinking about this question very much."
My chest had tightened reading that. How men kissed me? One man. And rarely, these days.
I opened the bag. Inside: a long burgundy dress, off-shoulder with a deep V-neck, high waist, long slit. Formal. Stunning. Something you'd wear to the opera.
Then the jewelry box - long diamond earrings, prominent but not ostentatious. The kind that whispered old money, not new, despite new money being exactly what Jude was.
He said he'd loved me in earrings once, how they drew the eye to my long neck, made him think about that spot behind my ear that made me gasp when he kissed it.
Jesus. How long ago was that? How long since we'd had any kind of date at all?
Eventually I checked my texts. Three from Valentin, none from Jude. My heart did little backflips reading each one, especially the last:
"'Give thanks to heaven: you are alone with your love for the first time.' Akhmatova again, dear Isabelle. I hope to be, soon."
Jude would not be seen dead typing something like this.
I stared at that word: soon. What did he think would happen soon?
I should tell him. Should end this. Should…
But I didn't.
I replied: "It's complicated for me, Val. But perhaps... soon."
Jude got home at six-thirty. Walked in as I stood before the full-length mirror in that dress, which hugged my curves perfectly - my breasts fuller now after gaining that stubborn stone post-wedding. Jude said he preferred me this way, so I hadn't bothered losing it.
"Looking beautiful," he said as he passed.
I swallowed, studied his reflection. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe this was us reconnecting.
He showered, then changed into his best suit. A bow tie I'd once gifted him but had never seen him wear. The platinum Rolex Daytona on his wrist. He brushed through his dirty-blond hair - still as full as ever, the slight curl behaving tonight.
He always looked handsome, but tonight he looked especially so. Distinguished, even.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Where are we going?"
"An orchestral performance."
The car traversed London's streets with speed, rain drumming the roof like fingers on a coffin lid. We drove in silence - the comfortable one - I convinced myself over the years.
Then suddenly we stopped. Parked in some residential area I didn't recognise.
Jude turned on music. Vivaldi's Winter. Glanced at his watch.
"Why did we stop?" I asked.
He pressed a button on the console. The windows began to darken - smooth, even, the clear glass shifting to deep grey.
"Electrochromic coating," he said conversationally, as if teaching me something new.
"The molecules realign when voltage is applied. Cost a fortune to have it installed on all the windows. Technically illegal on the front."
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. He said nothing. Just pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes from inside his suit jacket and cracked the driver's window slightly.
"Thought you quit."
He leaned back in his seat, settling in. Lit up.
Then, from the corner of my eye, a distance ahead of us, I saw it: a navy coat with prominent gold buttons. A black umbrella.
Valentin.
Unmistakably him.
My insides froze. Panic clawed up my throat - the sudden certainty that something horrible was about to happen.
Jude leaned forward, turned up the music.
"Listen," he said. "This part is exquisite."
Three men in balaclavas appeared from nowhere. They were on Valentin within seconds. I watched one of them grab Val's umbrella, fold it, then beat him over the head with it. He went down hard as the violins crescendoed. Jude exhaled smoke, eyes fixed on the scene like he was watching theatre.
"Jude!" I shouted, reaching for the door handle. "JUDE!"
Locked.
"HELP HIM!"
His eyes narrowed. His mouth curled in a smirk.
And then I understood. Every text he'd never mentioned, every lunch he'd never asked about, every lie he'd let me tell while knowing the whole time…
"You're doing this because of me," I whispered.
His eyes slid to mine.
"Doing what?"
The music built up. I saw boots connecting with Val's ribs, then his face, his legs, repeatedly, mercilessly.
"Allegro non molto" Jude said calmly, pointing to the stereo "perfect tempo."
They kicked Val still - back, stomach - methodical and efficient. His face caught the streetlamp's light: blood streaming from his nose, his mouth. He was screaming in Russian, then English.
"Помогите!! Пожалуйста! Please! HELP!"
The violins kept going - those rushing runs creating swirling harmonies, then leaping, evoking chattering teeth and stamping feet.
One of the men crouched next to Val, grabbed his hand. Bent his fingers back.
I heard the snap even through the glass, even over Vivaldi.
Valentin's scream cut through everything. Then another masked man pulled a knife out, slashed across Valentin's arm as he laid on the ground. Jude exhaled another puff of smoke.
"MAKE IT STOP!" I hit his shoulder with a closed fist. He caught it on impact without looking.
"Those fast tremolo notes of the solo violin," he murmured softly, enraptured. "Just… listen"
I yanked my fist away, then pulled out my phone.
Dialed 999. But when the operator answered, I realised I had no idea where we were - hadn't paid attention to street signs, didn't even know what part of London.
I disconnected, then looked at him.
"I'm sorry!" my voice high, panicked. The secret's out.
His face was stone cold.
"I AM SORRY! MAKE THIS STOP." I screamed, voice breaking.
"I am yours, okay? I MADE A MISTAKE." I was sobbing.
He just took another drag.
"I won't… I won't speak to him… ever again."
Jude nodded exactly once, barely perceptible, his thumb pressing something on his phone.
The men left Valentin moments later, crumpled on the ground, motionless, blood darkening the rain-slick pavement.
I prayed this wasn't fatal. That someone would find him, call for help. That Jude had calibrated this perfectly - brutal enough to terrify me, controlled enough that Valentin would survive. But I couldn't be sure, and that - perhaps - was the point.
Jude flicked the cigarette out the window, watched it arc through the rain. The music softening. He put the car in reverse. We backed out. Drove on. Glass lightening again gradually. I sat stunned, barely able to breathe. My hands trembled. Tears streaming down my face.
"You need to be really careful in London," he said, then clicked his tongue. "So much knife crime these days."
Then he took my hand and brought it to his lips. Planted a kiss on my knuckles-exactly where Valentin had, three weeks ago.
"Happy Valentine's Day, darling," he said, voice warm, affectionate, like he'd just given me flowers and not a masterclass in control and consequences. "We're going to the Royal Albert Hall."
I cried silently still, my heart in my throat, queasy and terrified, the long diamond earrings cold against my neck. The wedding ring heavy on my finger, where it had always belonged, where he wanted it to stay.
The violins faded. The rain drummed on. Jude drove us toward the Royal Albert Hall, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh.
Possessive. Proprietary.
Claiming.