Nikolai stirred awake before dawn, the pale gray light of morning barely filtering through the thick blackout curtains of his bedroom. The digital clock on his nightstand glared 5:03 AM in red, accusatory numbers—like it was mocking him for not having slept.
Because he hadn't. Not really.
He had tossed and turned for hours, wrestling with the silence of the penthouse and the weight pressing on his chest. Elara's words kept playing in his head like a broken record. That look in her eyes, the way her voice cracked but never crumbled, the way she said she needed to think with her mind—not her heart.
The worst part?
He understood her.
But understanding didn't make it hurt any less. It didn't stop the ache that had rooted itself in his chest and refused to let go. It didn't dull the sharp sting of knowing that the woman he loved was just down the hall, sleeping in the guest room like a stranger.
With a groan, he reached for his phone on the nightstand, more out of habit than curiosity. The screen lit up—so bright it stung his eyes—and the flood of notifications made his brow furrow.
Thirty-two unread messages.
Family group chat: "Volkov Legacy "
God, what now? He unlocked the screen, already bracing himself. Usually, when the family group chat was blowing up this early, it meant one of three things: someone got arrested, someone got engaged, or someone had a baby they weren't planning to announce.
He scanned the first few messages with one eye half-closed, still groggy.
Cousin Vera: "This is the third time, Father. Let me live my life!"
Uncle Sergei: "A third engagement is not a charm, it's a cry for help."
Grandma Anya: "Don't bring shame to this family, Vera. Not again."
Cousin Vera: "OMG, this isn't even about me anymore. Scroll UP."
Nikolai blinked, confused. Then he scrolled up.
And there it was.
Dimitri Volkov: "Looks like our little Nikolai has a woman living with him now. Caught them having dinner with Natalia. Wedding bells coming soon?"
Oh, for fuck's sake. Nikolai groaned aloud and let the phone drop onto his chest. His father—the walking, talking Russian news channel—had done it again. Of course. The man could run an empire in absolute silence but couldn't resist sharing the most personal details of his son's life with an audience that included three aunts, two cousins in prison, and a grandmother who still thought "Snapchat" was a venereal disease.
He picked the phone back up, scrolling through the aftermath.
Aunt Alina: "A woman? OUR Nikolai? Are we sure?"
Cousin Yulian: "I thought he was secretly married to the job."
Uncle Ivan: "Make sure she's not a spy. Or American."
Grandma Anya: "Tell her to wear a modest dress when I meet her. I don't want cleavage near my soup."
Nikolai pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead.
They were vultures. All of them.
He kept scrolling, half amused, half horrified.
Cousin Vera: "Can we talk about how hot this is? Like, mafia prince falls in love with a civilian? We love a dark romance arc."
Cousin Luka: "Is she blonde or brunette? For betting purposes."
Uncle Andrey: "If she can survive one dinner with Natalia and still live with him, she might be the one."
Nikolai sighed and tossed the phone to the side again. His head fell back against the pillow as he stared at the ceiling. A silent, resigned kind of irritation settled in his chest. Of all the people to start this avalanche, it had to be his father. The man who couldn't even remember to take his blood pressure meds, but had the memory of an elephant when it came to meddling.
The worst part was that Dimitri didn't even know the full story.
He'd shown up, saw Elara sitting at his table with Natalia, caught a moment—just a moment—of her smiling politely, eating the dinner he cooked, and drew the conclusion that she lived there. Permanently. That they were happy. That love was blooming and wedding bells were on the horizon.
And, of course, once Dimitri had an idea in his head, it became gospel. No questioning. No clarifying. Just one impulsive message in the family group chat and now everyone thought he was picking out tuxedos.
He rubbed his hands over his face.
They didn't know that Elara slept in the guest room. That she flinched every time he touched her. That her voice had a softness he missed, and a distance he couldn't close.
They didn't know she looked at him like he was both the man she loved… and the monster she couldn't unsee.
They didn't know that every night, he lay awake wondering what would hurt less—letting her go, or watching her stay and fall out of love with him piece by piece.
Nikolai sat up, the sheets falling from his bare chest. The penthouse was quiet—so quiet it buzzed. He glanced at the hallway leading to the guest room. He wondered if she was still asleep.
He got up, raked a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, and moved toward the kitchen. He needed coffee. He needed oxygen. He needed a universe where his father had just texted him privately for once instead of lighting a fire in the damn group chat.
As he filled the kettle and stared blankly at the sunrise bleeding gold through the window, he sighed and muttered to himself.
"…I'm going to kill him."
And he almost meant it.
Elara hadn't woken up yet when Nikolai slipped out of the penthouse. The early morning air was still gray with the remnants of dawn, and the silence in the apartment felt heavier than usual—like it was mourning something unspoken.
He left a note on the marble kitchen counter, his handwriting neat and sharp:
> "Had something to take care of. I'll see you when you get back from work. Breakfast's in the microwave. — N"
There was so much more he wanted to say, but words weren't going to fix anything right now.
Without another glance at the guest bedroom door—he couldn't bear to see it closed again—he grabbed his keys from the wall rack and left.
---
The engine of his matte black Maserati purred beneath him as he sped through the quiet streets of the city. Traffic was light, and the sky slowly began to paint itself in hues of pale blue and gold. The city was waking up, stretching, and carrying on, but inside Nikolai, a storm churned.
His jaw ticked with tension as he drove.
Of all the people who could have made his already messy personal life messier—it had to be his father.
By the time the wrought iron gates of the Volkov estate came into view, Nikolai had mentally rewritten his entire family tree at least four times. The estate loomed ahead like a monument to power and paranoia, every stone of it laced with blood and history. It had been in the Volkov family for generations, fortified and rebuilt time and again to suit the needs of whoever was in charge.
Today, it looked like a damn arena. Fitting.
He parked with a screech of tires, climbed out, and didn't even wait for a butler to greet him. He stalked up the stone steps, pushed open the double doors, and was immediately greeted by the familiar scent of wood polish, expensive cologne, and imported cigars.
"Nikolai?" a voice called from the left hall.
Natalia.
She emerged from the dining room, still in her satin robe, a mug of black coffee in one hand and an arched brow on her flawless face.
"To what do we owe such a surprise visit this early in the morning?" she asked, her voice silk wrapped in sarcasm.
Nikolai didn't even try to smile. "Where is your husband?"
Natalia blinked. "Mine? You mean your father?"
"No, not today," Nikolai snapped, rubbing the tension at the back of his neck. "Today he's just a man I need to keep from getting killed. Possibly by me."
She rolled her eyes and took a long sip from her mug. "He's in his study. But Nikolai," she added as he started to walk past, "if you do kill him, do it clean. The rugs are new."
He didn't answer, just kept moving down the hall, his footsteps echoing off the marble floors as he made his way to the heavy oak doors of his father's study.
---
Inside, Dimitri Volkov was exactly where he always was at this hour—behind his massive mahogany desk, surrounded by files thick with secrets and numbers that could topple countries. His silver hair was neatly combed back, and he wore a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the tattoos that marked decades of power.
He didn't even look up when Nikolai entered. "You're early."
Nikolai's expression was pure exasperation. "Of all the things you could've become, you chose news reporter?"
Dimitri glanced up, brow raised. "Excuse me?"
"You didn't just tell a person, Dad. You dropped my entire personal life into the family group chat like it was a tabloid headline."
Dimitri leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, utterly unbothered. "I was making conversation."
"Making conversation?" Nikolai repeated in disbelief, stepping deeper into the study. "You broadcasted that I had a woman living with me. You added wedding bells to the sentence."
"Well," Dimitri shrugged, "you were having dinner with your mother and your… Elara. She lives with you. What did you expect me to say?"
"Nothing! You could've said nothing!" Nikolai groaned, running a hand through his hair. "You could've asked me privately, maybe even confirmed before announcing it to Grandma, who thinks cleavage is the devil's window."
Dimitri smirked faintly. "She does tend to overreact."
"And now everyone thinks I'm planning a proposal next week!"
"Well," Dimitri said, tilting his head slightly, "aren't you?"
Nikolai stared at him like he'd grown another head. "You don't even know what's happening. Elara is staying in the guest room. She wants space. She's trying to figure out whether staying with me is worth sacrificing everything she believes in."
Dimitri's amused smirk faded. He straightened in his seat, watching his son carefully.
"I know what it means when a woman asks for space," Nikolai added quietly. "She's slipping through your fingers one breath at a time, and you can't hold on without hurting her. You raised me better than to cage someone who's already bleeding."
A moment passed. The tension hung thick.
Then Dimitri stood slowly, walked to the sideboard, and poured himself a glass of whiskey—even at six in the morning.
He took a sip, then turned back to his son.
"You think I don't know what that feels like?" he asked. "Do you think I married Natalia without losing pieces of myself too? Do you know how many times she's begged me to leave this world? To be something else? To be a normal man?"
Nikolai didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Dimitri nodded. "But I couldn't leave. Not then. Not now. I chose this life before I even understood what choice meant."
He walked closer, his voice steady but not unkind.
"I told them about Elara because, in that moment, I was proud. You've been cold and empty for too long, Nikolai. And seeing her… seeing you with her, even for one damn dinner, reminded me that maybe you aren't as lost as I thought."
Nikolai exhaled sharply, his anger simmering low now, replaced by something heavier. He ran a hand down his face.
"Could you just—next time—not make me trend in the family group chat?"
Dimitri smirked and clinked his glass against Nikolai's shoulder. "No promises. But I'll try."
"Seriously?"
"I said try."
Nikolai rolled his eyes and turned for the door, already dreading the chaos that still waited for him in the penthouse—and in Elara's eyes.
Behind him, Dimitri called out casually, "Also, if you are planning a proposal, don't use the yacht trick. That was my move."
Nikolai didn't respond.
But a ghost of a smile flickered on his lips as he walked away.