Readers Gift — Eva Levina

Death Is No Reason To Stop Living

Book One

In the Fog of the Spell

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

This is a work of nonfiction. Some names, identifying details, and circumstances have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

First edition

Prologue Death Is No Reason To Stop Living

I used to think death only came in one form — cold, sudden, final. But it doesn’t. Death can come slowly. It can arrive while you're still breathing, smiling, cooking dinner, paying bills. It can show up in the way you flinch when your phone buzzes. Or how you shrink a little more each time you’re told you're too sensitive, too dramatic, too much.

I died a thousand times over the course of 25 years. Not physically. Not yet. But something inside me curled up and stopped moving.

He didn’t kill me with fists. Words can be sharper. Silence can be colder. And charm can be deadly when it’s weaponized by a narcissist.

This isn’t a story about marriage. It’s a story about survival. A slow erosion of a woman —and the fight to come back from a place most people never see until it’s too late.

If you’re in the middle of it, or clawing your way out, this story is for you.

Because death is not a reason to stop living. It never was.

The Space Between Life and Memories

Where am I? What’s happening?

I tried to look around, but my head wouldn’t move. My hands were frozen. I couldn’t breathe — something was in my mouth.

Then, nothing. I checked out. I don’t know for how long.

The next thing I remember: people around me. They were doing something, maybe talking to me, maybe asking questions. But I couldn’t understand, and I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to do. Then — darkness again.

Everything was foggy. Why couldn’t I wake up? My throat burned. My chest hurt …or maybe I just thought it did. I didn’t know. Was it a nightmare?

One of those dreams where I run endlessly through the same building, over and over again. Door after door, room after empty room. I’m looking for something, for someone — Kirill. I want to scream his name, but I have no voice. I’m helpless. Voiceless.

I can’t run anymore. There’s pain everywhere. Then I jolt awake — soaked in sweat, heart pounding in my temples and throat. I’m in my bed. The room is dark. My husband is quietly snoring beside me. All is well. I smile. The nightmare is gone. I slip back to sleep the moment I feel his shoulder under my hand.

But it wasn’t gone. The nightmare came again — it was the same but different.

This time, I was already dead. I must have been in a coffin. The weight of the earth pressed down on my chest. My mouth was full of dirt. That’s how it felt.

I must have terrible breath. I hate bad breath. I need to brush my teeth. I need a drink — my throat is so dry. I need eye drops. No — my glasses. I can’t see.

And then — dark again.

I felt nothing. I had no voice. I couldn’t speak. I knew I’d wake up soon — I knew how to control dreams. I studied lucid dreaming. I knew how to enter one, how to exit. But this …this was different.

I kept slipping out.

There were people around me again. They were doing something, moving, fussing. I heard a voice: “How are you, Angela ? Can you hear me?”

Yes! I can hear you! But I can’t speak. Don’t you know that? I wanted to scream. I’m dead, I have no voice!

“Squeeze my hand if you hear me,” the voice said. “If you understand what I’m asking you.”

Such a stupid request. But I squeezed whatever was in my hand.

“That’s good. You’re strong,” the voice said gently, taking it away. And I fell back into the dark.

I opened my eyes again. I wasn’t as sleepy. The lights were dim. It was quiet. I heard buzzing, beeping …and another sound, like an accordion being opened and closed without any notes, just air.

I looked around.

A hospital.

Why am I in a hospital?

Something was in my mouth. I reached up to touch it.

“Don’t touch!” a voice yelled sharply.

Footsteps. In a split second, a nurse was beside me.

“You’re finally awake. How do you feel?”

How do I feel? What a stupid question. I can’t talk. I’m in a hospital. I don’t even know why I’m here. And she’s asking me how I feel?

“Don’t try to speak,” she added. “You’re on a ventilator. You can’t breathe on your own yet.”

I can’t breathe by myself? There’s a tube down my throat. Why? What happened?

I wanted to panic—but I couldn’t. I cried instead. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks.

I looked around for Kirill.

He wasn’t there.

“You should sleep now,” the nurse said. “You need your rest.” And maybe she gave me something, because I fell asleep again—thankfully. Breathing through a machine was terrifying.

When I woke up again, someone was touching my hand. Kirill? No—a man in uniform.

“Mrs. Novikov, can you hear me? Close your eyes if you can.”

I did.

“Very good. Do you know what happened to you? Close your eyes if you do.”

I didn’t. So I kept them open.

“Your heart stopped. We brought you back. You tried to commit suicide.”

I opened my eyes wide—so wide, the man stepped back.

“Are you OK?” he asked. “You understand what I’m saying? You remember? I came before. We talked about it already. A couple of days ago.”

I shook my head. No. I didn’t remember anything. I didn’t know what he was talking about.

Suicide?

What the fuck?

Did I try to kill myself?

My heart stopped?

I must have tried to pull the tube out of my mouth, because they sedated me again. Darkness returned.

When I woke again, I was hungry. I was thirsty. But the tube was still there. I had no idea if it was day or night. How many days had passed? Why was I even there?

And Kirill—still gone.

I gestured to the nurse that I wanted to write. She brought me paper and pen.

When is the tube coming out? It hurts. I want it out.

“I’ll tell the doctor,” she said. “He’ll examine you. If you’re ready, he’ll remove it. But please don’t touch it. There’s an inflated balloon inside your trachea. If it moves, it could damage your throat. Just stay calm.”

Her voice sounded familiar.

Where is my husband? Why is he not here? I wrote again.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “He was here. But you’re in ICU. The doctors think it’s best not to disturb you. You were in a coma. Then we put you in a medically induced coma so the ventilator wouldn’t distress you.”

So he was here. I just didn’t see him.

He hated when I’m sick. That explained it, I thought. He was never good with hospitals or pain—not mine, anyway. After surgeries, he’d last maybe three days before going back to work. Even when he could have stayed home. Even when it was serious. He always acted like the entire Veltimo corporation would collapse without him.

I accepted that long ago. Kirill claimed it was empathy—that he just couldn’t stand seeing me suffer. But the truth was, if he didn’t see it, it didn’t exist. And that made it easier for him. Harder for me.

But I’m strong. I can handle it.

Still—I needed to know.

Why did my heart stop?

The nurse said I tried to kill myself. But I didn’t remember. My mind was blank.

Wait—no. I remembered yelling. An argument.

I remembered him telling me I’d gotten too old. That he couldn’t stand taking care of me anymore.

Take care of me? He never took care of me. I was always the one taking care of him.

He told me he never wanted to marry me. After 25 years of marriage, he said he never wanted it. What—did I hold a gun to his head? Marry me or die?

He wanted to come to America. I was his ticket.

And for 25 years, he joked about it. “You always think I married you for the green card,” he’d say. “You should stop already.”

Then I remembered — during our last fight, Kirill said he had no feelings for me anymore.

I remember sitting there, drinking tea from a mug we bought in London. The one that said: Now panic and get away. The dark twin to Keep calm and carry on.

How appropriate. The mug fell from my hand and shattered. I had to stop him from saying those horrible things.

Why were we even fighting?

The day before I went into the hospital, we were looking at villas in Corfu. A beachfront villa—$700,000. We could have paid cash for it.

Just flashes of memories, nothing concrete.

Why the fight? What triggered it?

I didn’t know. I was too tired to piece it together. Too tired to remember.

But I knew something terrible must have happened.

Because somehow, I ended up there.

And Kirill was gone.

And I was still alive.

But I didn’t know why.

The Motion of Life

I was 38, living in a small village 20 kilometers outside of Odessa, Ukraine. A husband, two teenage kids, and a granddaughter — yes, a granddaughter. My son had gifted us with a baby at 15, and just like that, I was a grandmother before I was even done being a mother.

We owned a chain of pet shops, but business was collapsing after our partner — the godfather of the second-largest mafia family in Ukraine — was killed. Suddenly, no protection. No leverage. No stability.

My husband didn’t want me working anymore. “Stay home,” he said. “Help the kids with the baby.” Maybe he was trying to protect me. Maybe he just wanted control.

Either way, I stayed.

But I needed something that was mine. So I leaned into the thing I loved most — my cattery. I bred exotic shorthairs and Persians, and I was damn good at it.

The internet was booming, even in Ukraine, and I knew I needed a website. But this was before Google. Before Yahoo was anything useful. There was no Fiverr. No Upwork. Just luck and timing.

I searched local forums, maybe posted a listing — I don’t remember exactly. What I do remember is that out of nowhere, I got an email.

A stranger.

“I can build you a website,” he said.

I had no idea who he was or how he found me. But something about the message felt direct. Simple. Efficient. Not too much charm — which I would later learn was his specialty.

We exchanged a few emails. Quick, professional. Settled on a price. He’d do a mockup for me first.

A few days later, the mockup arrived in my inbox. It was exactly what I wanted. Clean. Focused. No clutter. No flash. Just like me.

I hired him for $100.

I didn’t know then that I wasn’t just buying a website. I was opening the door to a man who would unravel my life thread by thread.

The website was done. Clean, elegant, professional — exactly what I wanted.

Then I had to pay him.

It was a warm spring morning in Odessa — the kind that made you believe winter had finally surrendered for good. The air still held a chill in the shadows, but the sun was strong, pushing through the grime on the buildings and bouncing off broken sidewalks. Dust rose from the tram tracks. Tulips were blooming in patches of dirt no one really owned.

I was out in the village, and he lived in the city. So I offered to meet him at one of our stores. We had several locations back then, but our flagship shop was in the heart of the city —tucked into the half-basement of an old residential building, the kind with uneven steps and crumbling brick but soul in every corner.

I had my driver take me in that day. I remember the weather was mild, gray, nothing special — but I felt …off. Not nervous, exactly. Just aware.

I brought along a new set of photographs — kittens, queens, studs. I wanted him to update the gallery section of the site. I was proud of my cats. They were beautiful, well-bred, and cared for better than most people.

As I stepped into the store, the familiar smell of dog shampoo and dry food wrapped around me like an old coat. Not many customers that morning. I greeted my sales team. They looked up from chatting behind the counter and smiled when they saw me. They always did. When I was in the store, I worked right alongside them — behind the counter, helping customers, teaching sales tricks and how to handle difficult clients without raising your voice.

“Angela! You didn’t tell us you were coming!”

I laughed and waved them off. “Just checking in. And I’m expecting someone, actually — a web designer.”

They all perked up, suddenly curious.

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“Not a clue,” I said. “He’s a university student. That’s all I know.”

And it was true. He could’ve been 19 or 35. I didn’t even know if he was tall or short. I didn’t care. This was business.

But I do remember checking my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. Just a glance. Just to make sure I looked professional.

The store’s signage was modest, the paint peeling, but inside was clean and bright — shelves stacked with pet food in Soviet-era bulk sacks and European imports when we could get them. Dog toys, bird cages, medicine, kibble, and my cats’ photos on the wall above the register.

My manager Lilly and I stepped into the back office, a small square room that smelled faintly of plywood, damp stone, and the instant Nescafe we both drank too much of. The wallpaper was stained from old leaks. There was a two-burner electric hotplate in the corner, a coat rack and a cheap metal desk covered in receipts, pens, and a calculator missing its back cover.

We sipped our coffee from scratched glass mugs and caught up.

We talked about the other stores — stock shortages, a broken fridge in store No. 6, and a delivery guy who was probably skimming. We also laughed about the usual gossip: someone’s wife found lipstick in the glovebox, someone else was moonlighting at a kiosk selling cigarettes without a permit.

I wasn’t just their boss. I knew them. Their husbands. Their kids. Who was saving for a new car, who was pregnant again, who had secretly married a guy in the mafia.

I also knew who was stealing.

Not big stuff — just little things. A can of dog food. A toy for their kid’s rabbit. I didn’t say anything. I let them. Life was hard. Prices kept rising. If a handful of dog treats made someone feel seen and safe, I didn’t mind.

About 30 minutes passed. I checked my watch.

“Your computer boy still isn’t here?” my manager asked.

I shook my head. No call. Nothing.

I had too much to do to sit around waiting for a student who didn’t know how to be on time.

I reached into my bag, took out the agreed $100 – crisp cash only, always — and laid it flat on the desk. Next to it was a small envelope with new photographs of my cats and kittens for the website.

“If he comes,” I said, “give him this. If not, I’ll deal with it later.”

She nodded.

“What does he look like?”

I shrugged. “No idea. Never met him.”

Her eyebrows lifted, curious. I gave a half-smile. “Probably a tall skinny geek in thick-framed glasses.”

I walked out into the sun, slid into the back seat of the car and gave the driver the address of the next store.

The streets were alive — women selling flowers and sunflower seeds on blankets, the air filled with the scents of exhaust and freshly baked bread. Odessa was never still.

I leaned back and closed my eyes. I didn’t think about the web designer again.

Not until later.

***

The phone rang as I stepped into the office at the next store.

I picked it up with the same distracted tone I always used in those days — one hand on a stack of invoices, my mind already on store #5.

It was my manager from the flagship store.

“Angela ! He came.”

She was talking fast, her voice bright with the buzz women get when they’ve just seen something pretty.

“Who?” I asked, though I already knew.

“The web designer. The kid you were waiting for. He came maybe 10 minutes after you left. Didn’t say sorry for being late, didn’t really say much at all. Just asked for you, said he was the guy making your website, and that he’d email you later.”

I rolled my eyes. “Charming.”

“But Angela …” she said, and now her tone dropped into something else entirely — playful, conspiratorial. “He’s beautiful.”

I laughed. “Beautiful?”

“Dreamy,” she said without missing a beat. “Not too tall, not skinny. No glasses. Long, curly hair—like, blonde god. And these eyes, Angela . Deep blue, green, grey. Almost mystical. Like something from a painting. And his teeth —all of them. Thirty-two perfect white ones.”

I sat down in the creaky office chair, half-smiling. “Are you trying to set him up with someone already?”

“I’m just saying, if your crazy daughter saw him, she’d lose her mind. He’s maybe 18 or 19. Looks like one of those boys from a German soap opera. He doesn’t even look real.”

I shook my head, amused. “Well, maybe he can design websites and model for shampoo ads.”

She laughed. ”He was wearing a suit!”

Now I laughed,

She continued. “He said he’ll email you. That’s it. Just …letting you know.”

“Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

For a moment, I sat there staring at the desk. The invoice in front of me had gone blurry.

He didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. But he showed up.

And now, suddenly, I could picture him.

“Blonde god,” my manager said.

That’s what stuck with me.

She went on and on about how dreamy he was — not too tall, not too skinny, no glasses, and that smile with 32 perfect teeth.

I’d always been envious of people with straight, beautiful teeth.

She, on the other hand, had none. Not a single one. Just a few crooked metal hooks sticking out of her gums. It looked awful, but I never had the heart to say anything. She was terrified of the dentist.

I could’ve paid for it. I would have. But she didn’t want it. And her work was solid. Reliable. Loyal. Her toothless smile didn’t matter to me. No one in the store cared.

Still — blonde god?

Somehow that didn’t sit right. I couldn’t imagine a “blonde god” designing websites in 1990s Ukraine. That sounded too ...shiny. Too clean.

I pictured someone darker. Not just hair, but energy. A little more shadow, a little more edge.

And then came the idea that my daughter might like him — a half-joking idea in my head, but not without weight.

My wild, beautiful, unmanageable teenage daughter Lotta.

She was 17 and allergic to boundaries. She refused to study, skipped school, didn’t want to work, didn’t care. All she wanted was bikes, boys, sex, leather jackets, and cigarettes.

She came and went as she pleased. Drank like she earned it. Smoked like it fed her. Slept wherever the party ended.

When our business partner — our friend, the godfather of the second-biggest mafia family in Ukraine — was still alive, he had his boys keep an eye on her.

His “goddaughter,” as he called her.

More than once, we called him in the middle of the night, frantic. “She didn’t come home. We don’t know where she is.”

And every time, he found her.

Even if it meant dragging her off some greasy biker at a sleazy apartment.

That man was dangerous and ruthless — but when it came to her, he was soft. Protective. And she loved him for it.

After he died, there was no one to watch her. Not like that.

Lotta was stunning — long, naturally curly hair, the kind women pay fortunes to fake. Big blue eyes. Slender and striking.

But hormones and booze had already started taking their toll.

And no matter how dreamy the web designer might have been, I didn’t see them together.

They just didn’t fit.

Besides, we were “the Americans.” That’s what they called us in business circles. We were connected, wealthy, with dollars to spend. My daughter was a catch — not just for love, but for papers. A green card. A way out.

Some poor bastard could fall for her, win her heart, marry her, and five years later walk away with his shiny blue passport and nothing left behind but a crater where she used to be.

I didn’t want to be the one who introduced her to that bastard.

Even if he was “the blonde god with 32 perfect teeth”.