Elara stared at him, her eyes glossy but determined. For a moment, Nikolai thought he saw her soften—just for a heartbeat—but then her expression hardened like ice frosting over cracked glass. She yanked her hand from his, her jaw clenched, and took a sharp step back, needing distance between them.
"Fine," she said, her voice cold and steady, though it trembled slightly at the edges. "Let's go and get my things."
Nikolai blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in her tone, but before hope could rise in his chest, she continued.
"But don't mistake this for something it's not," she added, lifting her chin. "I'm not moving in with you because I want this. I'm doing it because I have no choice. Because you've made it clear that I'll never truly be free—not from you."
Her words were a blade, and they found their mark. He didn't flinch, but he felt the sting nonetheless.
"I'll come," she continued, walking past him toward the hallway. "I'll move my things. I'll sleep here. I'll eat your food, walk your marble floors, breathe in the scent of your expensive cologne every time I pass your room—but don't pretend this is a relationship. Don't think this means we're fine."
She turned to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes fierce. "I'll be in the guest room. I'll stay there until the day you come to your senses… and let me go."
Nikolai stood frozen in the middle of his penthouse, the city skyline glowing faintly behind him like some faraway dream. Her words echoed through the open space, each one reverberating through his chest, leaving hollowness in their wake.
He wanted to speak. To beg. To reason. But no words came.
Instead, he simply nodded once, solemnly.
He followed her silently down the hallway, grabbing his keys and wallet from the glass dish on the console table. She didn't wait for him, already pulling on her shoes by the door, her arms crossed tightly around her middle like she needed to physically hold herself together.
When they stepped into the elevator, the air between them was thick and suffocating. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft hum of the elevator descending, the low mechanical whirring of descent—like a slow spiral into something neither of them fully understood.
Elara stared straight ahead, her lips pressed into a firm line. She was rigid, composed, but beneath that stillness Nikolai knew there was a storm—confusion, hurt, betrayal, love. She wore all of it like invisible armor.
And Nikolai? He stood beside her, tall and silent, his mind racing. Every second she spent close to him felt like a gift. Every word she said, even if it cut deep, was a reminder that she hadn't given up completely. That she was still here.
But the worst part?
She had built her walls. And this time, she'd done it with bricks of silence and steel. And no matter how much he loved her, no matter how deeply he wanted to hold her and make her understand—he couldn't force her to open the gate again.
Not without losing the last fragile piece of her trust.
When the elevator dinged open in the garage, she stepped out first, walking ahead of him toward the black SUV. He opened the door for her, and she climbed in without a word.
And as he rounded the front of the car to get in, Nikolai Volkov, heir to the bratva, a man who had survived bullets and betrayals, realized this was the most dangerous moment of his life—not because of guns or enemies—but because for the first time, the woman he loved was slipping through his fingers.
And he had no idea how to stop her.
The ride to her apartment was silent, thick with tension. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip behind the city skyline, casting long shadows across the streets, a quiet mirror to the darkness between them. Elara stared out the window the entire drive, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her jaw set, as if holding back words she couldn't afford to say.
Nikolai drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers twitching with unspoken frustration. Every few seconds, he glanced at her, hoping she'd turn, say something—anything—but she didn't. She was shut down, guarded, her silence louder than any shouting match.
When they arrived, she didn't wait for him to open the door. She climbed out, unlocked the building entrance, and walked briskly ahead, not looking back once. Nikolai followed her up the short flight of stairs to her modest apartment, familiar and yet suddenly foreign to him.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The scent of vanilla candles and rose-scented detergent hit them instantly—her scent. Homey, soft, real. For a moment, Nikolai just stood in the doorway, looking around. This place was her sanctuary. A place that held pieces of her he had only begun to discover. And now she was leaving it. Leaving him.
Without a word, Elara moved to her bedroom and pulled out two suitcases from the closet. She set them on the bed with a huff, her movements brisk and mechanical.
"I can help," Nikolai offered quietly from the doorway, watching her move around the room like a whirlwind.
She didn't look at him.
"No," she said sharply. "I don't want your hands touching my things."
The coldness in her voice made his stomach twist. Still, he nodded and leaned against the doorframe, watching her in silence.
She moved like a woman trying to stay ahead of her emotions. She folded her clothes with practiced precision, stacking them into neat piles—jeans, blouses, a few sweaters. She grabbed her hairdryer, her toiletries, a pair of flats, and two books from her nightstand.
The more she packed, the more hollow the room began to feel.
Then she reached into her closet, into the far corner, and pulled out a velvet box—the jewelry set. The diamonds sparkled in the soft light, their beauty dulled only by the look on her face.
Next came the designer dress. She folded it, not with care, but with finality, like she was trying to erase the sentiment stitched into the seams.
Then the stilettos. She grabbed them, walked toward him, and placed everything gently—yet firmly—into his arms.
"You can keep them," she said coolly. "Or burn them. I don't care."
He stared down at the items, stunned, as if she'd just handed him her heart and told him to destroy it.
"I don't want them anymore," she added. "They mean nothing now."
"Elara…" His voice was low, pained.
"No," she snapped, her eyes sharp and wet. "Don't say anything. Just… take them."
She turned back toward the bedroom without giving him a second look.
He stood there, the velvet box in one hand, the shoes and dress draped over his arm like discarded pieces of a life they had almost built together. A life she was now trying to dismantle, piece by piece.
She returned a few minutes later, dragging the two heavy suitcases toward the door. He moved instinctively to take one, but she beat him to it.
"I've got it," she said, her tone icy, firm.
"Elara," he tried again, softer this time, "you don't have to—"
"I do," she cut in, her eyes locking with his. "Because if I let you help, if I let you carry my things and hold my hand and pretend like we're still us… I might not be able to walk away."
That admission cracked something inside him. But she didn't flinch. Didn't soften. She turned toward the door and waited for him to move.
Reluctantly, he stepped aside.
They walked out of the apartment, side by side but worlds apart.
And behind them, the apartment door closed with a soft click, like the end of a chapter neither of them had been ready to finish.
They returned to the penthouse in the same heavy silence they had left in. The ride up the elevator was long and wordless, with only the low mechanical hum breaking through the oppressive quiet. Elara stood stiffly, her eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers as they climbed. She didn't say a word, didn't glance in Nikolai's direction. He didn't push her to.
When the elevator doors finally slid open, she stepped out with both suitcases in hand, making her way to the guest room without waiting for him. The penthouse felt colder now, even though it hadn't changed. The marble floors gleamed, the tall glass windows reflected the city lights in dreamy glows, but the warmth it once held—the shared laughter, whispered words, the small moments of affection—felt far away.
Nikolai lingered by the door, watching her disappear down the hallway. Her shoulders were squared, her back straight, but he could see the strain in the way she walked, the weight she carried in more than just her luggage.
She opened the door to the guest room and dragged her suitcases inside. The room was spotless, untouched, prepared only for occasional guests who never stayed more than a night. She was unpacking her life into a room meant for transience. It didn't feel like a home; it felt like a holding cell.
She set the suitcases down on the bed, unzipped one, and began placing a few clothes in the closet—not out of willingness, but out of necessity. After a moment, she sat on the edge of the bed, the tension in her limbs finally giving in to fatigue. Then she pulled out her phone and stared at the screen for a long moment before looking up at him. He had followed her and now stood at the threshold of the room, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.
"Nikolai," she said, her voice low, but steady.
His gaze lifted to hers, guarded but attentive.
"What if I told Maya?" she asked. "Everything. About you. About what I overheard. About the bratva."
A beat of silence stretched between them like a taut wire.
He sighed softly, pushing off the frame, stepping just inside the room. "Don't," he said, voice even. "Please don't tell her."
She tilted her head slightly, brows lifting in quiet challenge. "Why not? Afraid she'll go to the police?"
His jaw clenched.
"Would you kill her?" she asked, her voice suddenly sharper, coated with fear she tried to mask with defiance. "If I told her—everything. What you said on that phone call. About the shipment of girls. Some bruised. Some… pregnant." Her voice trembled at the last word. "Would you have her killed?"
Nikolai flinched as if she had slapped him. His breath hitched and he closed his eyes slowly, running a hand through his hair.
"No," he said after a long moment, voice strained. "I wouldn't hurt the people you love. I wouldn't touch a hair on her head."
She narrowed her eyes. "But someone else would, right?"
He didn't answer immediately, which said more than silence ever could.
"Nikolai," she pressed, her heart pounding now, "would someone else hurt her? If I told her? If she talked?"
He looked at her, pain clear in his eyes. "You don't understand how this world works, Elara. It's not about me wanting anyone dead. It's about the business. The rules. The consequences."
"That's not an answer," she whispered.
He exhaled, stepping closer, but she stood, keeping the bed between them. He respected the boundary.
"I'm not lying to you," he said, voice softer now, like he was trying to plead with her heart. "If you told her—and she told someone else, even without meaning to, even just to try and help you—it could lead to exposure. And the people I work with… they don't forgive. They don't give second chances. They don't ask questions. They act. That's how the bratva survives."
Her hands tightened around her phone.
"You knew," he added, eyes locked to hers. "You knew what we're capable of. What I'm capable of. You've read the headlines, you've heard the stories. But knowing it and seeing it that close to your world… it's different. I know."
She stared at him, tears welling in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"That's exactly why I can't do this," she said, her voice breaking despite her best efforts. "I love Maya. She's been with me through everything. And now… if she knew what I know, if she even sensed something was wrong and tried to help me, tried to get me out, she could die."
"I won't let that happen," he said firmly.
"But you can't stop it either," she shot back. "You just said it—you might not hurt her, but someone else would. That's not protection, Nikolai. That's a death sentence wrapped in love."
He looked away, unable to deny it.
"I never wanted this to touch her," he murmured. "That's why I'm asking you not to tell her. Let her stay in the dark. Let her think whatever she needs to think, but don't bring her into this. Don't put her in danger."
Elara sat down slowly, the emotional weight of it all pushing her down.
"I just wanted to love you," she whispered. "I didn't want to be dragged into a world where everything I care about has a target on it."
"I know," he said, his voice soft. "And I hate that I've made you feel that way. But I can't undo who I am. I won't lie to you and say I'll leave the bratva. I won't. I was born into it. It's in my blood. But you—you're not part of it. You never were. And if I can keep you and your world untouched, I will."
She looked up at him, eyes wide with something between anger and heartbreak. "You're asking me to lie to my best friend."
"I'm asking you to protect her," he said, taking a small step forward. "Because if she knows… if she even guesses right and says the wrong thing to the wrong person—hell, even the internet—then it's over. Not just for me. Not just for you. But for her, too."
Silence settled between them again.
Elara leaned back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She felt the fight draining out of her, replaced with a heavy resignation. She hated the truth of his words. Hated that he was right. Hated that loving him meant carrying a secret that could never be told.
"I won't tell her," she said finally. Her voice was tired, strained. "Not because I'm protecting you. But because I'm protecting her."
Nikolai nodded once, solemn. "That's all I ask."
She didn't look at him as he turned and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
Once alone, Elara lay on the bed, her phone clutched tightly in her hands, staring at the ceiling with wet eyes. The silence of the guest room pressed in on her like a weight.
She had never felt more alone.