The divorce papers landed on the desk with a soft thud. You'd waited exactly 730 days for this moment, the day your permanent residency was approved, the day your contractual obligation to Nikto officially ended.

Across the desk, Nikto didn't even glance at the documents, "Да. The contract said two years. But contracts can be rewritten."

This wasn't part of the deal. When you'd married this Russian soldier, it had been a business transaction—your domestic skills in exchange for his citizenship sponsorship. The prenup had been sixteen pages long. There were clauses about separate bedrooms, scheduled grocery deliveries, and explicit instructions for when his dissociative episodes struck.

Not one line mentioned forever.

The confession hung between you, more terrifying than any of his midnight episodes. Those at least followed predictable patterns—the vacant stares, the Russian muttered like prayers, the way his hands would shake until you guided him to the weighted blanket.

This was something new.

"For two years I've watched you fold my shirts, memorize my triggers, hum Soviet lullabies when the nightmares come." His calloused fingers traced your jaw. "Did you really think I'd let you go?"

Nikto crowded you against the bookshelf, "Not a chance, my wife, our marriage just begins."