All Chapters of Claimed by havoc : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Roxana Sleeping is difficult; I close my eyes and then reopen them, but the ceiling above me never changes. Neither does the ache in my chest. The room is dark, except for the pale glow of city lights filtering through the curtains. Tristan’s side of the bed remains untouched—cold, empty. I curl closer to the pillow he used two nights ago; it still carries the faint scent of his cologne. Without thinking, I pull it against my chest. The tears come again, quietly this time. I don't sob or scream; I quietly cry until the pillow grows damp beneath my cheek. Every time I close my eyes, I see the document. Twenty million euros. Settlement proposal: marriage between Roxana Petrov and Tristan Kozlov. Marco’s signature. Tristan’s signature. Permanent. I squeeze my eyes shut. “No,” the word leaves my lips as a whisper. “There has to be another explanation.” But every explanation I think of dies before it can comfort me. My mind betrays me, replaying every moment I’ve s

Tristan The word refuses to leave my head. Home. Rain lashes across the shattered windows of the warehouse, and blood pools beneath my boots. It’s already evening, yet nothing significant seems to come out of the investigation. Belladonna did everything perfectly. The thought alone makes uneasiness crawl up my skin. My gaze darts toward the dead man on the floor for the hundredth time today. His eyes remain lifeless and fixed on the ceiling. I wish we had gathered enough information before he died; instead, he only uttered one word: home. I pull my phone from my pocket to dial Texas’s number. Just then, my phone rings, and her name flashes across the screen. My stomach tightens. Texas doesn't call me when I'm away unless it’s extremely important. I press yes and put the phone to my ear. “What?” Silence—not complete silence, just hard breathing—then, “Tristan….” My girl tightens around the phone; something is wrong. “Talk.” “ I……” her body breaks, “Roxana…” Every muscle i

Roxana Morning arrives long before I'm ready for it. I never really slept. Every sound outside the motel roused me. Car door, footsteps, sirens. Voice drifting through the paper-thin walls. Every noise sounded like Tristan had found me, and every shadow beneath the door looked like one of his men. By sunrise, exhaustion settles so deeply into my bones that I no longer know if I'm afraid or simply numb. The chair is still wedged under the doorknob, and I stare at it for a long time. Nobody came, not yet. Slowly, I stand from the bed, my body protesting immediately. My eyes burn, my muscles ache. I shuffle toward the bathroom and splash cold water across my face. The woman staring at me from the cracked mirror barely looks alive—red eyes, swollen lips, and dark hair falling over trembling shoulders. With a wedding ring that catches the pale morning light. Mrs. Roxana Kozlov. I hate that name now. Not because of him, but because of what it represents. A transaction. A signatur

Roxana The moment the plane touches down on the runway, my stomach twists so hard I think I might get sick. The passengers around me start unfastening their seatbelts and chatting excitedly about vacations and family visits. I don't move. I simply stare through the small oval window. Mexico. I'm really here—thousands of miles away from New York, miles away from Tristan. The thought should comfort me, but instead, it hurts. The cabin door opens, and people begin filling through the aisle. I force myself to stand, one step at a time. Every movement feels unreal, like I'm walking through someone else's life. The airport buzzes with voices I barely understand. Spanish flows around me in rapid bursts. An announcement echoes overhead. Children laugh, suitcases roll across polished floors. It’s loud and unfamiliar. I pull the brim of my baseball cap lower and tighten my grip on my backpack. "Keep walking. Don't look nervous," I mutter to myself. The immigration line stretches f

Tristan “Mother,” I say before I can stop there. My mother doesn't move, she stands a few feet away from me, crying, not speaking. Then her eyes slowly move over me. Too slowly, as though she’s trying to convince herself she’s looking at me, not another person. Frustration slowly grows in my chest, “What the fuck happened?” She moves now, slowly towards me, in a way that makes my brow rise slightly. Then her eyes lock onto mine, she looks at me, really looks at me. Not the blood drying across my hand. Not the cracked wall. Not the untouched whiskey sitting on the desk. Me. Her lips part. Nothing comes out. Then her eyes fall on the beard shadow darkening my jaw. My shirt is still the one I wore to Italy. The sleeves are rolled up unevenly. Blood stains the cuffs. My tie disappeared somewhere between the airport and the cafe. I don't even remember taking it off. The cigarette between my fingers was burned almost to the filter. I never took another drag. She takes in