Love Me, Don't Fix Me

Andrew lay on the cold wooden floor of his apartment, curled in on himself like a child. His breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps, the air catching in his throat as if his body no longer knew how to function under the weight of what he had just learned.

Nikolai Volkov.

That name now echoed in his mind like a death knell.

The man who had killed his parents.

The man who had left his baby brother to burn or drown—whatever claimed him first.

The man whose daughter he had fallen for.

Andrew pressed his palms to his temples as if he could push the memories back, force them into the black void where he'd buried them for years. But they clawed their way out, relentless.

He was ten years old again.

It was a Thursday. He remembered it so clearly. The sun had set by the time he'd made his way back home, something he never did. He was the kid who always came home straight after school. But that day? That day he stayed behind to play soccer with the boys behind the gym. It was the first and last time he ever joined them.

Maybe he was never meant to come home early that day.

Maybe fate had decided to spare just one.

He remembered turning the corner of his street, hearing screaming. Not the playful shrieks of kids. Not the everyday chaos of his neighborhood.

Real screams. Panicked ones.

He had dropped his school bag and ran. The crowd of neighbors parted when they saw him. He saw it then—his home, engulfed in orange flames, as though hell itself had risen to swallow it whole.

"Mom! Dad! Alex!"

He ran, not through the front—but through the side gate, straight to the back door. The wood was hot to the touch, but it gave way when he shoved it open. And that's when he saw him.

His little brother, Alex.

Running.

Flames licking at his back, his tiny hands slapping at his burning shirt, tears streaking through the soot on his face. And then—

He collapsed. Right at Andrew's feet.

Andrew had dropped to his knees, trying to pat the fire out with his bare hands, but he was shaking too hard. He was crying, choking, screaming. He didn't even realize he was bleeding until the ambulance came.

They took Alex's body away wrapped in a white sheet.

His parents' bodies were recovered hours later—upstairs, still in bed. The investigators had found the scorched remnants of chains welded to the bedposts.

They had been chained there. Left to burn. Someone had wanted to make sure they died slow. That they didn't even get the mercy of escape.

The authorities never investigated it properly.

Neighbors whispered, but no one asked questions.

The file disappeared. The media never covered it. There were no names, no suspects. No justice.

Just silence.

He had spent years wondering why. Who? Why? What kind of monster could do that to a family?

He had once thought it might've been the government. Some dark military cover-up. Or maybe his parents had crossed someone powerful, someone with reach.

But this?

This was worse.

The Bratva.

Nova's father.

Andrew gritted his teeth, rage and grief twisting inside him like barbed wire. His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.

He had fallen in love with the daughter of the man who had destroyed everything.

And the cruelest part?

He meant it.

Every second with Nova had felt like peace. Like hope. Like finally breathing after years of suffocating.

And now he couldn't breathe at all.

Tears spilled down his cheeks. Quiet, endless. Not the loud sobs he'd given at the funeral, not the hollow ones he cried on the anniversary every year. No. These were tears of pure defeat.

How could fate be so cruel?

Was this the universe's way of laughing in his face?

And the questions…

God, the questions.

Did Nova know?

Had she known all along who he was? Who her father was to him?

Had she approached him out of guilt?

Did she only get close to him to ease some twisted sense of atonement?

Was it pity?

His stomach churned at the thought. The idea that every laugh, every smile, every stolen glance had been wrapped in guilt made his skin crawl. He didn't want to believe it—but the seed had already been planted, and now it was growing.

But worst of all?

He didn't know if he wanted to know the answer.

Because what if it was true?

What if the only real thing between them had been his own feelings?

He turned his head toward the side of the floor where just hours ago Nova had sat, laughing, teasing, blushing when he got too close. Her hoodie still lay crumpled there, forgotten in the chaos. He reached for it like it might tether him to something solid.

It still smelled like her.

Vanilla and paint.

He let it go.

How could he go back now? How could he look her in the eyes knowing the blood that was on her father's hands?

Knowing that her father had stood in this very room and confessed?

"I always believed kids repeat their parents' history," Nikolai had said. "I never trusted your parents. They proved me right. And I won't trust you either."

He wasn't just rejecting him as a boyfriend.

He had judged him.

Condemned him—based not on what Andrew had done, but on who he came from.

And yet… Nikolai was the murderer.

Andrew wanted to scream. To tear the walls down. To hit something. But all he could do was sit there, hollowed out by the truth, paralyzed by the past.

The flames that had taken his family hadn't just burned his house—they had burned a hole in his life that no amount of love, or hope, or future could fill.

Nova might still come.

She might knock on his door tomorrow like she promised.

And then what?

Would he open it?

Could he bear to look at her—his first kiss, the girl who made him laugh again, the girl who peeled back his walls with every crooked smile and stubborn word?

Would he let her in?

He didn't know.

All he knew was this: nothing would ever be the same again.

Not after tonight.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the universe's final cruelty.

------------

Elara sat on the edge of their bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white. Her eyes were fixed on the ornate ceiling moldings she'd once adored when they first moved into the villa—now they blurred behind a haze of frustration and betrayal.

The door creaked open behind her.

She didn't move.

She didn't have to.

She already knew who it was.

Nikolai.

He stepped in quietly, hesitating just beyond the threshold like a child who knew he'd done wrong. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, but still, Elara didn't look at him.

She couldn't.

Not yet.

"Elara…" His voice was low, almost pleading. "Can we talk?"

"No." Her voice was curt. Distant. A knife wrapped in silk.

He took a breath. "Please—"

"I said no, Nikolai."

There was a long pause, and then she turned her head slowly, her gaze finally settling on him, cool and sharp like broken glass.

"You made our daughter cry," she said. "You dragged her out of a boy's apartment like she was some criminal. Like she was property you were retrieving. And for what? Your ego?"

He exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "It wasn't about my ego."

"Then what?" she snapped. "Because from where I'm standing, it looked like you stormed in there like a Bratva Don, not a father. You humiliated her, you humiliated him, and now you're trying to justify it by telling yourself it was for her 'own good'?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked across the room and sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, careful not to get too close.

"I did it to protect her," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

"You keep saying that," Elara muttered bitterly, staring down at her hands. "You say it like it makes everything okay. Like it erases the pain you caused."

She turned to him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, frustration brimming beneath the surface.

"Niko, she's eighteen. She's not a child anymore. She's going to fall in love, make mistakes, get hurt, learn. That's life. You don't get to pick who she loves. You don't get to break her just because you're scared."

"She's not ready—"

"She's more ready than you ever gave her credit for!" Elara cut him off. "You raised her to be strong, but you don't trust the strength you gave her. You keep treating her like glass. But you forget that she is your daughter too. She can handle things."

He was quiet for a moment, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers interlaced like a man waiting for judgment.

Finally, he spoke.

"Do you remember," he asked slowly, "the story in the news, about eleven years ago? A house fire. A boy survived, but his family didn't. It happened in Hillgrove—late in the evening."

Elara blinked, trying to remember. "Vaguely. It was tragic. There was something about chains? They said the parents had been tied to the bed…"

Nikolai nodded, expression grim.

"That boy," he said. "The one who survived… that was Andrew."

Elara turned sharply to look at him, her face frozen in disbelief.

"And I was the one who ordered that fire."

The air in the room thickened like molasses.

For a long moment, Elara just stared at him, not moving, not breathing.

It was as if someone had reached into her chest and gripped her heart with icy fingers.

"You…" she whispered, voice cracking. "You're saying you…?"

Nikolai closed his eyes, jaw clenched. "Yes."

Elara slowly sat up straighter, her breath catching in her throat. "Why? Why would you…?"

"They were Bratva," he said. "My people. They signed an oath of loyalty—sealed it with blood. But they betrayed me. They gave information to the police, leaked routes. Got good men killed. I had to make an example. You know how this world works, Elara."

"I don't want to know how it works, Nikolai!" she screamed, rising to her feet. "That's always been the deal between us—you do what you do, and I choose not to ask. I've stayed with you because I chose to believe you were a monster only to those who deserved it."

She pointed a trembling finger at him, fury and sorrow warring in her eyes.

"But that boy? That child? He didn't deserve this. You burned down a home with a family in it. You killed his parents. His brother. And now your daughter is in love with him!"

"She doesn't know," Nikolai said quickly, standing too. "I didn't tell her."

"Oh, God, Niko." Elara covered her mouth, staggering backward. "And you think that makes it better?"

"She would have found out one way or another," he said, his voice tight. "At least this way, it's done. If Andrew had kept seeing her, if he found out after falling deeper for her, what then? He'd hate her. Resent her. And she'd blame herself."

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

"She'd think she was cursed by my sins. That she was the reason he left. This way… she can hate me, sure. But not herself."

Elara's voice dropped to a deadly quiet.

"And what makes you so sure she won't find out everything, Nikolai? What makes you think Andrew won't tell her exactly what you did?"

He looked her in the eye.

"I'm counting on it."

Her expression broke. Anger gave way to horror. "You want her to know?"

"I want her to hate me," he said. "Because if she hates me, she won't go near him again. She'll never have to choose between the man who ruined her lover's life and the man she fell in love with."

Elara stared at him in disbelief.

"And that's love to you? That's fatherhood?"

"No," he said softly. "That's damnation. And it's mine to carry."

Tears fell from her eyes now, silent and hot.

"If she finds out," she whispered, "she will never forgive you."

Nikolai nodded. "I know."

"You'll lose her."

"I already have."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Elara sank onto the bed again, her shoulders trembling.

"She's going to find out, Niko. Whether you want her to or not. And when she does…" she swallowed hard, "you'd better pray to whatever god you believe in that she still sees something in you worth loving."

Nikolai didn't reply. He just stood there, staring out the window as the last light of the day disappeared behind the hills, cloaking the villa in nightfall.

Outside, the world kept turning.

But inside that room, everything had stopped.