The city air was warm as the afternoon gave way to the gentle haze of early evening. The streets pulsed with soft golden light, everything painted in hues of amber and dust. Elara stepped out of the office building, her heels clicking against the pavement as she exhaled slowly. Another day done. Another day where she wore a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She stretched her back, her muscles tight from hours of sitting, sketching, smiling through meetings, and trying to ignore the weight pressing down on her chest.
She didn't want to go back to the penthouse. Not yet.
So instead, she turned left, away from the car parked near the curb, and followed the scent of warm sugar and cinnamon that wafted down the street. A cozy little bakery sat tucked between a boutique and a wine store, its windows glowing softly with a welcoming golden hue. The chalkboard sign outside read:
> "Special Today: Triple Chocolate Muffins & Fudge Drizzle Cupcakes"
Elara didn't hesitate. Chocolate was exactly what she needed. Something rich, indulgent, and unapologetically comforting.
The bell above the door chimed as she stepped inside. The place smelled like heaven—like melted chocolate, vanilla, fresh dough, and just a hint of coffee. The elderly woman behind the counter gave her a warm smile.
"Rough day?" she asked kindly, eyeing the tired slump of Elara's shoulders.
Elara smiled faintly. "Something like that."
She picked out a box of chocolate croissants, a brownie square the size of her palm, and two fudge-drizzle cupcakes, because if she was going to wallow in sugar, she was going to do it right. The woman packaged it all with care and handed her the pastel pink box tied with twine.
Back in the Audi—sleek, black, and elegant in a way that screamed too expensive—Elara dropped the box on the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. Her hands rested on the steering wheel for a moment as she stared out at the people walking by. All of them looked normal. Light. Untouched.
Her phone buzzed on her lap, dragging her out of her thoughts.
Maya: Hey babe. Haven't heard from you in two days. You alive?
Elara blinked, her heart giving a painful twist. God, she missed her. But she couldn't tell her. Not really. Not the parts that mattered.
She typed back:
> Elara: Hey. I'm okay. Kinda moved in with Nikolai.
It only took five seconds for her phone to buzz again.
Maya: WHAT?! Girl. You moved in?? Already??
Elara bit her lip. Her fingers hovered over the screen before she typed:
> Elara: Stuff happened. It's cool though. He's a good cook.
A few dots blinked as Maya typed, then paused, then typed again. Elara knew she had more questions—she always had more questions—but thankfully, Maya didn't pry too much this time.
Maya: He better be more than a good cook. Just saying. I expect chocolate AND flowers when I visit. And an apology note for stealing you from me.
Elara smiled faintly, the first genuine smile of the day. She didn't answer. She couldn't. Because if Maya ever found out the truth—not just that she was living with him, but the world he was tangled in, the one Elara now sat uncomfortably close to—she knew Maya would do something reckless. Brave. Dangerous.
And Elara couldn't lose her.
With a sigh, she put the car into drive and headed home—no, to the penthouse. She still couldn't call it home.
---
The penthouse greeted her with quiet.
She entered, her heels muffled by the soft expanse of the hardwood floors. The lights were dimmed low, casting the space in a soft gold glow. She carried the pastry box into the kitchen, but her appetite had vanished somewhere between the car ride and the silence waiting here.
Nikolai appeared a moment later, stepping out from the hallway, a black shirt clinging to his frame and a tension carved deep into his features. He looked like he hadn't slept. Again.
"Elara," he said, his voice quiet, tentative.
She turned to him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm going to skip dinner," she said simply. "I don't feel like eating."
He didn't press. Even though every instinct in him wanted to ask if she was okay, wanted to say something that would bridge the distance growing between them like ice cracking over a frozen lake. But he didn't. Because part of him knew—he was the reason for that cold.
Instead, he nodded slowly. "Okay."
Elara walked past him, heading for the guest room with the pastry box clutched in her hands like a shield. Her scent lingered in the hallway—vanilla, faint roses, and something uniquely her. He stared after her, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.
He hated this.
The silence. The space. The aching nothing that echoed in the walls now. This wasn't how he imagined things would be. He had brought her here to protect her—but all he was doing was breaking her slowly.
Still, he wouldn't let her leave. He couldn't.
Because no matter how fractured things were, how distant she'd grown, the thought of waking up and not finding her under this roof, in this space where he could hear her voice and smell her perfume lingering in the air... that was worse than any nightmare. Worse than war.
He leaned against the counter, watching the hallway she'd disappeared into, and whispered to no one in particular:
"I'll fix it. I swear to God, I'll fix it."
But the echo that answered him was just silence.
------------------
The low hum of early morning stillness filled the penthouse as the sun began its slow ascent, casting a muted gold glow across the city skyline. Nikolai sat on the edge of his bed, his phone resting on the nightstand, screen still aglow with a message that brought a sigh from his chest.
Viktor: Trouble at the warehouse. Grandfather and Dad are already here. Get here. Now.
He dragged a hand down his face. Of course there was trouble. There always was.
The bratva didn't sleep. Neither did its sins.
He rose, tugging on a fitted black shirt and slacks, strapping on his watch and holster like armor. His movements were silent, efficient. Calculated. Like everything about him. By the time he stepped into the kitchen, Elara was already there.
She didn't look at him. She stood at the counter, her back to him, perfectly composed in her work clothes—a pale blue blouse tucked into tailored slacks, her dark hair tied back neatly. Her silence was louder than any scream.
"Good morning," he offered, his voice low.
She didn't answer.
He sighed and stepped closer, grabbing his keys from the dish on the counter. "I have to go. Business. I'll see you tonight. Maybe we can talk."
Her movements didn't pause as she spread almond butter on toast. "Unless you're going to say that I can leave and go back to being free, then we have nothing to talk about."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
What was there to say? He'd already tried. His mother had talked to her. Shared her truth. But it hadn't helped. If anything, it had pushed Elara further into resolve. She didn't want this life.
He exhaled slowly, turned, and walked out.
But as he got into his car, something dark twisted inside him. He couldn't let her go. He wouldn't. Even if she hated him. Even if she walked around the penthouse like a prisoner. Even if she screamed. He had survived gunfire, stabbings, and torture. But losing Elara would destroy him.
And for a fleeting second, a thought danced on the edge of his mind.
What if she were pregnant? Then she wouldn't leave. She couldn't.
He clenched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles paled.
No. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't cross that line.
But the thought lingered.
---
The warehouse loomed like a concrete tomb on the city's outskirts. Gray. Impenetrable. Monolithic. The air reeked of oil, dust, and adrenaline.
Inside, chaos.
Nikolai strode in through the back, the sharp clack of his boots swallowed by the sheer noise of shouting guards and screaming girls. The usual silence of the holding chambers had been replaced by raw havoc.
Several girls were throwing themselves against the bars of their cells, shrieking. Others clawed at their faces or curled up in corners, muttering nonsense. A few had bloodied themselves on purpose, bruising their arms, breaking fingernails, even biting their own skin.
"Fuck," Nikolai muttered.
His father, Dimitri, was pacing, barking orders. His grandfather, Mikhail, stood at the center of it all, cold and composed as always, like a vulture watching death unfold with bored detachment.
"You're late," Dimitri said without looking at him.
"Was handling something."
"Handle this," Mikhail said, gesturing to the mess.
One of the guards approached, panting. "Sir, we checked the supply logs. The usual sedative was swapped. The girls were dosed with something else—a synthetic stimulant. Makes them aggressive, paranoid."
Nikolai's jaw clenched. "Who did it?"
"We're looking into it. Could be someone inside. One of the new recruits."
Mikhail turned to Nikolai, his voice like iron. "They need to be reminded of their place. Make an example. Otherwise, this spreads."
Nikolai's stomach churned. Not from guilt. But from the frustration of knowing he couldn't do anything different. This wasn't a charity. This was business. This was power. This was control.
"Pick the ringleaders. The ones who bloodied themselves the worst," Mikhail said. "We will start with them. Let them see what happens to rebels."
A teenage girl, maybe sixteen, sobbed hysterically behind one of the barred doors. Her wrists were bandaged. Blood had soaked through.
"She tried to cut herself with a broken shard," one of the guards reported.
Dimitri waved a hand. "Put her in isolation. She'll learn."
Nikolai watched as two men dragged her away, her screams echoing down the hall.
He turned away and closed his eyes for a moment. This was normal. This was expected. This was life.
But now he had Elara in that life. And every time he saw one of these girls, all he could think was how much she would hate him if she were standing here now.
He had tried to reason with her. Tried to show her that the bratva wasn't just cruelty and shadows. It was loyalty. Family. Legacy.
But how could she ever understand that when all she saw was blood?
---
Hours passed.
By the time Nikolai left the warehouse, it was evening. The sky had darkened, the clouds a roiling mass of gray and black. Rain spat lightly on his windshield as he drove back through the city.
The weight of the day clung to his shoulders. But what weighed heavier was the image of Elara's face that morning. The cold distance in her eyes. The way she didn't flinch when she hurt him with her words.
He wanted to believe that his mother's talk had helped. That maybe Natalia's stories of compromise, of enduring love amidst crime, would awaken something in Elara.
But he had been wrong.
She was more distant now than she'd ever been.
And he didn't know how much longer he could take it.