The shrill cry of Elara's alarm ripped through the stillness of the guest room.
Her eyes cracked open, lashes sticking slightly as if they, too, were reluctant to face the day. She groaned and flopped onto her side, dragging a hand across her face. Monday. The word itself felt like a curse. Any other day she might have found comfort in routine—rushing to get dressed, catching the train, pouring over swatches of color palettes and marble samples at her design firm. But today? Today, she wanted to drown under the covers, let the mattress swallow her whole, and pretend the last twenty-four hours had never happened.
But the hollow ache in her chest reminded her otherwise.
She turned her head slowly, her eyes adjusting to the soft morning light spilling through the tall windows. The guest room. Sterile. Minimal. Cold. The absence of personal items—of hers or anyone else's—only made everything feel more unreal. She had a fleeting hope that maybe this was all a bad dream, the kind that lingers cruelly just before waking.
But no. She was still here. Still in his penthouse. Still caught in a world she never asked to be a part of.
With a heavy sigh, she forced herself to sit up. Her head throbbed gently, a dull pulse at her temples from the emotional exhaustion. She dragged her feet to the en-suite bathroom and turned on the shower. The water ran hot, fogging the mirror, scalding against her skin, but she didn't flinch. She wanted it to burn—to sear away the confusion, the helplessness.
She stared at herself in the mirror for a long moment afterward, wrapped in a towel. Her reflection didn't look like her anymore. Her eyes were tired, a hollow kind of sadness resting in them. Her mouth was pressed into a line that didn't quite suit her youthful face. She looked like someone carrying too much. Because she was.
Once dressed in her work attire—a pale beige blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers and her usual comfortable but stylish heels—she brushed out her damp hair and tied it back in a low bun. Professional. Polished. Like nothing was wrong.
The hallway outside her room was quiet, and when she stepped into the open-plan kitchen and living area, her shoulders relaxed a fraction. Nikolai wasn't there.
Good.
She wasn't ready to face him again, not yet. Not after last night. Not after the tangled conversation about her best friend possibly being collateral damage if she ever whispered a word.
She crossed to the kitchen and paused when she saw a sticky note plastered onto the stainless steel fridge door.
The loopy, slanted handwriting was unmistakably his.
> Had to leave early. Work.
Breakfast is in the microwave.
Take the black Audi today. Keys are on the wall rack.
She stared at the note for a moment, then let out a dry, humorless laugh.
Of course. Of course he'd leave her a car. The last thing left was for him to handpick her outfit and brush her hair like she was some doll he kept in a luxury case.
She opened the microwave and found a covered plate with fluffy scrambled eggs, toast, and some grilled tomatoes—still warm, probably freshly made before he left. She took the plate out mechanically, chewing in silence while her thoughts tangled like barbed wire.
This wasn't normal.
She didn't want to get used to this—to the way his life was bleeding into hers. Even when he wasn't physically there, he was everywhere. In the note. In the car keys. In the very air she breathed.
Once finished, she washed her plate and left it on the rack to dry. She wasn't the type to leave a mess behind. Even now.
At the wall by the front door, a sleek matte-black key fob hung from the rack. She took it down carefully, her fingers brushing over the engraved "V" for Volkov.
She whispered under her breath, "Let me guess, you've already told the car where I work too?"
Despite the sarcasm, there was no fire behind her words. Just resignation.
A glance at her phone told her she was running a little behind. She grabbed her tote bag and stepped into the elevator, the key fob tucked into her coat pocket. Her mind wasn't in the upcoming meetings or the site inspections she had lined up as a junior interior designer. She usually loved the work—the creativity, the attention to detail, the joy on clients' faces when a vision came to life.
But today, even her passion felt muted.
All she could think about was the man she was now living with. A man who loved her with suffocating intensity. A man who ruined lives for a living and still claimed her heart.
And now she had to step into the world outside, smile at her coworkers, draft blueprints and color schemes, and pretend like everything was normal.
Like her entire life hadn't just changed in the span of a weekend.
Elara stretched her arms above her head, arching her back as a yawn slipped past her lips. The office lights had begun to dim as more of her coworkers filed out, waving tired goodbyes and murmuring about dinner plans or deadlines they had no intention of meeting tonight. The end of the day had finally arrived—but instead of feeling relief, she only felt a familiar heaviness settle in her chest.
Time to go back.
Back to that penthouse.
Back to him.
Her heels clicked across the marble floor of the design firm's underground parking lot, echoing around her like tiny taunts. She sighed deeply, pressing the unlock button on the black Audi parked in the corner. Its sleek, intimidating curves gleamed under the fluorescent lights—unmistakably expensive, undeniably attention-grabbing.
Today had been… exhausting. Not because of demanding clients or clashing aesthetic visions. No. Today had been tiring for a far more annoying reason.
People.
From the moment she walked into the office, her coworkers had been circling her like gossip-fueled vultures.
"Whoa! Did you get a new car?"
"Did your dad suddenly remember he's a billionaire or something?"
"Girl, did you win the lottery? Is there a rich old man involved? Blink twice if you need help."
She'd laughed it off. Or at least pretended to. She told them it was from her boyfriend—because, well, technically it was true. She just didn't elaborate on who her boyfriend was. She didn't mention the Bratva. She didn't talk about the forced cohabitation. She definitely didn't mention the suffocating dread curling around her ribs like a too-tight corset.
When they squealed and asked when the wedding was, she'd nearly choked on her lukewarm coffee.
So yes. Exhausting.
Now, she slipped into the driver's seat and gripped the wheel like it was a lifeline. Driving back to the penthouse felt surreal, like she was stepping into someone else's life. Her hands guided the car automatically through the familiar streets, but her thoughts swirled with chaos.
Elara stepped into the elevator, the doors gliding shut behind her like the final click of a cell door. She leaned her head back against the cool metal, sighing deeply as the numbers climbed. A familiar weight settled on her chest—the anticipation of returning to a place that was both gilded and suffocating. The penthouse, his penthouse, felt less like a home and more like a silk-lined cage with invisible bars.
She exhaled slowly, quietly praying that Nikolai wasn't home yet. If she could just slip into the guest room, take a hot shower, and spend the rest of the night pretending she was somewhere else…
But fate had a cruel sense of humor.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
And there he was.
Nikolai Volkov—cold, unreadable, devastatingly composed—seated on the velvet couch in the living room like a crowned prince awaiting judgment. Only… he wasn't alone.
Seated next to him was a woman. Elegant. Poised. Dressed in a flowing cream blouse, slacks tailored to perfection, and heels that could kill a man twice over. Her ash-blonde hair was swept into a chignon that looked effortlessly chic, and she had a face that was both warm and intimidating. Familiar.
It was the smile that gave it away—the same arrogant, knowing smile Nikolai wore when he wanted to disarm you before delivering a verbal blow.
His mother.
The woman stood the moment she saw Elara, her expression lighting up with delight. "Ah! There she is."
Before Elara could step back, Natalya Volkov had crossed the room in three confident strides and pulled her into a hug. Elara stiffened, taken aback, caught between warmth and wariness.
"You must be the girl who finally got my son to go to church without me threatening to exorcise him," Natalya said with a chuckle, pulling back to look her over. "God, you're lovely. I've been dying to meet you."
Elara gave a polite smile. "It's… nice to meet you too."
"Natalya," the woman introduced, tapping her chest with a long, manicured finger. "Nikolai's mother. And don't worry, I only bite when I haven't had my vodka. Speaking of—"
She turned toward her son with dramatic flair. "Where's your vodka cabinet, darling? I'm getting old and dry."
Nikolai sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Bottom shelf, left side."
She clapped her hands. "Excellent." Then, as if an idea had just struck her, she turned to Elara again. "Come. Let's have a little girl talk. Nikolai, go make dinner. Something edible. And take your testosterone with you. Your presence is spiking my blood pressure."
"I'm not leaving you alone with her," Nikolai said dryly.
Natalya waved a hand at him. "Do you want me to call your father and tell him you're being overbearing again?"
Nikolai grumbled under his breath and disappeared into the kitchen.
"Don't worry," she whispered conspiratorially to Elara as she poured herself a generous glass of vodka. "He's all bark. I've been slapping the sass out of him since he was three."
She curled up on the couch, patting the cushion beside her like they were old friends. "Sit. I promise I don't bite. Not unless you're secretly working for the FSB."
Elara sat carefully, still unsure if she'd been ambushed or welcomed.
Once she was settled, Natalya took a slow sip of her vodka and exhaled like a woman relaxing into confession.
"Let's get to the point," she said with a sigh. "I'm not here to convince you to stay. I'm not here to plead my son's case. I came because Nikolai told me everything. And I thought, God, this poor girl must feel like she's drowning."
Elara blinked. "He told you… everything?"
"He did," Natalya confirmed with a nod. "And before you assume I'm here to pressure you—no, I'm not taking sides. I just wanted to talk, woman to woman. Because once, a long time ago, I was you."
Elara looked at her, surprised.
Natalya nodded. "I once stood where you're standing now. Young. Hurt. Confused. And completely in love with a man who belonged to a world that made me sick. I loved Dimitri Volkov so much it made me insane. And I hated him for what he was. I begged him—begged him—to walk away from the bratva. I cried. I screamed. I threatened to leave. I did leave. Once. For three whole days."
She took another long sip of her vodka, her voice softening.
"But he came after me. And he didn't ask me to come back. He told me. Said he couldn't live without me. Said if I didn't come home, he'd burn half of Moscow to find me." Her laugh was small, but genuine. "And I believed him. Because he would've done it."
Elara looked down, her throat tightening.
Natalya leaned forward, her voice low and intense. "These men, Elara… they don't know how to ask. They weren't raised to be gentle or kind. They were taught to take. To claim. To own. Dimitri didn't propose to me with flowers and a heartfelt speech. He bought a yacht, slapped a diamond ring the size of a pigeon egg on my finger, and said, 'Marry me.' That was it."
She raised her brows. "No please. No kneeling. Just… Marry me. Like a damn mafia CEO filling out a contract."
Despite herself, Elara gave a small huff of laughter.
"Hopeless," Natalya muttered fondly. "Absolutely hopeless."
There was a beat of silence. Then Natalya's tone shifted, a quiet gravity settling into her words.
"But I'll tell you something… I've never once doubted that he loves me. That man would burn the world to keep me safe. And yes, he scares the hell out of me sometimes. Yes, I hate what he does. I hate the blood. I hate the secrets. And vodka," she lifted her glass, "is the only thing that's kept me sane in this godforsaken marriage."
Elara swallowed hard.
Natalya's gaze softened. "I'm not telling you to stay. But I am telling you that if you choose to love a man like Nikolai… it has to be your choice. No one else's. You have to know who he is, what he is, and decide if you can live with that. Not fix him. Not change him. Just… live with it. Because love alone won't save you. But it can anchor you."
"I don't know if I can," Elara whispered.
"Then don't," Natalya said simply. "Not unless every part of you is ready. Because half-love won't survive this world. It'll get crushed. Chewed up and spit out."
She reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind Elara's ear like a mother would. "But if you do stay… don't live in his shadow. Don't be a ghost in his house. Make it yours. Challenge him. Call him out. Fight for your space. Because men like them… they only respect the fire. Not the ash."
At that moment, Nikolai called from the kitchen, "Dinner's ready. Hope you like steak."
"God, he's so dramatic," Natalya muttered, standing and draining the last of her vodka. She turned back to Elara with a wink. "Think about what I said. And if you ever need more vodka or a place to scream into a pillow, come to me."
Elara gave a shaky laugh, and for the first time since entering the penthouse, she didn't feel completely trapped.