“What?”

“It really doesn't. I understand why you did it. I do. We can work through this,” Mike went on.

Hmmm, not the direction I was hoping for.

“No, Mike. No working through it, I'm sorry. I really am, but it's too late,” she said softly. He walked on his knees over to her.

“It's not. It's okay. It'll be okay,” he stressed.

“It won't, Mike. It won't,” she assured him. His hands gripped her wrists, held on tightly.

“I can learn to live with it! I promise! I can forgive you. We'll go to therapy, we'll take courses, whatever it takes.”

“I don't want any of that. I don't want this. I'm sorry.”

“You just slept with someone else, I understand. You got it out of your system, we can work past it,” his teeth were clenched together.

“No,” she whispered, responding to everything. All of the above.

She could practically see the light bulb go on over his head, and his eyebrows shot up.

“You didn't just sleep with someone,” he said softly.

“No,” she repeated herself.

“You didn't get it out of your system,” he added, slowly rising to his feet. He didn't let go of her wrists and she was forced to stand with him.

“No.”

“You're still with him.”

“Yes.”

The word had barely left her lips and he was shaking her. His hands moved to her upper arms and he really jerked her around. Mischa shrieked, her head whipping back and forth. She braced her hands on his shoulders, begging him to stop.

“Why!? Why should I!?” Mike was shouting.

Then he was moving her, dragging her across the room. She yelped and tried to pull away, tripping over her own feet. He shoved her against a wall, then pulled her back and pushed her again. And again.

“Stop it!” she screamed.

He did stop, but kept her pinned there, boxing her in with his hands on either side of her head. He pounded against the wall and she brought her hands to her face, screaming at him.

“How could you!? Eight years we've been together! Eight years! You goddamn whore!” he shouted as he kept pounding.

“I know! God, I'm sorry!” she yelled back.

Her hands were still over her face, and he grabbed her left wrist again, yanked her arm forward. She was shocked and she was thrown off guard and she was scared. She wouldn't have thought it possible, that Mike could scare her. He pinned her forearm between his elbow and his rib cage, his grip on her wrist like a vice. He began yanking at her finger.

“You bitch. I can't believe it. Whore,” he growled.

“You're hurting me!” she cried at him, shoving at his shoulder, trying to pull her arm free.

“You think I care!?”

He kept pulling, and at first she thought he was trying to pull her finger out of the socket. But then she figured out what he was doing, right as her rings scraped over her knuckle and came free. He let go of her and she was still pulling against his grip, so she stumbled backwards, hit the wall, then fell to the ground.

“Please, no, I'm sorry, stop,” she sobbed, holding up her hands as he leaned over her.

“You don't deserve to wear these,” Mike hissed, holding her rings in his clenched fist.

Mischa sobbed on the floor, wrapping her arms around herself. She listened to him stomp around as he gathered his things. He hadn't unpacked much – he hadn't been there long. Then he was storming out of the suite, slamming the door as hard as he could.

Oh god. Oh god. This was worse. So much worse than I thought. Oh my god.

She felt like vomiting. She even gagged. She sobbed and shook and managed to get on all fours, so she could crawl into the bathroom.

Once she was in there, she turned on the shower and dragged herself into the tub. She didn't care that she was still dressed. She didn't care that she'd only turned on the hot water. She didn't care about anything, she just curled up in a ball in the bottom of the tub.

And she cried and cried and cried.

~How Do You Fix What's Broken~

Tal stood outside his hotel, pacing back and forth.

“Yeah, yeah, so what's next?” he barked into his cell phone.

“Well, despite my best efforts to get us reassigned,” Ruiz grumbled at the other end, “we're still on the job.”

“I told you. If you ever try that bullshit on me again, we're gonna have a real fucking problem,” Tal warned.

“We already have a real fucking problem. This is going to end, you know that right? What the fuck are you going to tell her then!?” his partner demanded.

“The truth.”

“Fucked up, man. You have to know that. It's all gonna be fucked. The both of you have lied to each other and everyone else so much, there's no other way for it to end,” Ruiz informed him.

“Then that's my problem, not yours. When do you ship out?” Tal asked.

“I'll message you. Canaan,” Ruiz's voice got serious. “Tell her before you leave.”

“Mind your own fucking business.”

Tal hung up the phone. He was angry – not because Ruiz was talking shit. He was angry because Ruiz was telling the truth. Tal was petrified of telling Mischa the truth, because he feared it would scare her away. Feared it would make her hate him. And he couldn't handle that, not anymore. He wasn't scared of much, but a beautiful dancer had him terrified. Somehow, she had managed to stitch her heart to his, and if she pulled away, she would rip his heart out when she left.