As soon as Nikolai closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounded far too loud in the stillness that followed. Elara sat frozen for a moment, the stylus still in her hand like a forgotten artifact from a life that was supposed to be normal—meant to be normal. Slowly, deliberately, she placed it down, the soft clink of plastic on wood marking the moment her carefully built composure cracked.
A shaky sigh escaped her lips, one she hadn't meant to let go of, and she leaned back in the chair, her eyes drifting to the ceiling. Her heart was beating too fast for someone who had barely moved. Too loud. Too chaotic. Her palms were clammy. Her throat was dry.
She pressed both hands to her face.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
If there was one thing she knew with absolute, bone-deep certainty, it was that she loved him. She loved Nikolai Volkov with a kind of love that didn't feel like it belonged to this world. A love that was violent in its devotion, loud in its silence. She felt it in every glance, in every word he spoke—sometimes even in the ones he didn't. He didn't love her in pieces. He loved her all at once, recklessly, completely, painfully.
But that was the problem, wasn't it?
He loved her like a man who didn't know how to not consume.
And she loved him like a woman trying to survive that fire.
Elara exhaled, stood up abruptly from the chair, and began pacing. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her torso like they were the only thing holding her together. Her bare feet made no sound on the sleek floors, but inside her head was a thunderstorm—words crashing into fears, fears crashing into memories.
How did she end up here?
A junior interior designer with dreams of starting her own studio one day. A woman who used to spend evenings watching renovation shows and scrolling through Pinterest, planning imaginary projects for homes she couldn't afford. Her biggest problems used to be unpaid overtime and caffeine withdrawals. Not… this.
Not being stuck in a penthouse like a beautiful, glittering cage. Not waking up in the middle of the night wondering if the man she loved had blood on his hands. Not looking at herself in the mirror and asking if her silence made her an accomplice.
She stopped pacing and leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane. The skyline glittered outside like the city was trying to seduce her into believing everything was okay. But it wasn't.
"I can't do this," she whispered, her breath fogging up the glass.
But what did can't mean? That she'd run? And go where? How far could she possibly get before his world—the world he came from, the one that had eyes in every street corner, ears in every shadow—sniffed her out?
The one question kept circling her brain like a vulture: What would he do if he woke up tomorrow and I was gone?
She didn't doubt the answer. Not for a second.
He would burn down cities. Buy entire governments. He'd stop at nothing.
And that… that terrified her just as much as it moved her.
She let her body sink down to the floor, her back pressed to the wall beneath the window, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her heart ached in her ribcage like it had grown too big to fit anymore.
He said he couldn't let me go. That he wouldn't.
But I can't stay… not like this.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she didn't cry. She couldn't. Crying felt like weakness, and she was already drowning in enough of that. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to breathe.
Her mind drifted to a memory.
The first time he touched her face. Not kissed her. Just touched her cheek, slowly, reverently. She had been rambling about paint swatches and couch fabrics, half-annoyed with the world. He had been staring at her like she was art. Like he had never seen anyone before her. His fingers brushed her skin like she was too delicate for the world and not even his strength could protect her.
She had fallen in love with him then, though it took her months to admit it.
Now, that same hand could end someone's life before they had time to scream.
She buried her head in her arms.
She wasn't stupid. She understood that men like him didn't get to be soft. The bratva didn't raise men with gentle hands. But he—Nikolai—had made her feel safe. Like she was the one untouchable thing in his entire kingdom.
And yet, the weight of knowing the things he did—really did—was cracking that illusion into sharp-edged pieces.
She thought of his words again. How he said his mother stayed, eventually. How love had anchored her. But even his mother—strong and unyielding—had moments of rage and resentment. Was that going to be her life too? Torn between love and loathing?
Would she end up drinking vodka in silk robes at noon, trying to forgive a man who never asked for forgiveness?
No.
She couldn't live like that. She wouldn't.
But walking away felt like walking away from her own ribs.
She opened her eyes and stared ahead at the quiet guest room. It was a lovely space, really. Warm tones, soft lights, big windows. And yet it felt like purgatory.
Maybe even hell.
She leaned her head back against the wall and whispered, "I love you, but I don't know if that's enough."
No answer came.
Just silence.
And the knowledge that tomorrow she'd have to see him again. Have to look into the eyes of the man she wanted to run toward and away from at the same time.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and this time, she didn't wipe it away.
Because it was real.
And she didn't know how much longer she could carry this kind of love before it destroyed her.
--------
Elara opened her eyes to darkness.
Not the comforting kind that invited sleep, but the heavy, suffocating kind that felt like a weight on her chest. Her head throbbed faintly, her body felt achy, and her skin burned beneath the covers. She turned over, hoping sleep would pull her back under like a tide, but it never came.
She sighed, throwing back the covers and sitting up on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands over her face.
1:07 AM. The blinking red digits glared back at her from the bedside clock.
Great. Perfect.
Her tongue felt dry, her throat scratchy, and the heat under her skin had worsened. Maybe it was a fever. Maybe it was stress. Or maybe it was heartbreak manifesting itself in a thousand little physical aches.
It didn't matter.
What mattered was that she couldn't sleep. And the longer she lay there, the more her thoughts ate her alive. So, she got up. Her bare feet touched the cold floor, grounding her slightly, but not enough to shake the feeling growing in her chest.
The silence in the penthouse was unnerving, broken only by the occasional hum of the air conditioning and the faint creaks of settling walls. She walked quietly through the hallway, flipping on the light switches one by one. The warm golden glow flooded the space, chasing away the shadows that clung to the corners.
She didn't know where she was going until she was already there.
The mini bar.
She stood behind it for a second, staring at the glittering rows of bottles. All expensive. All meticulously arranged. And all just as much a part of Nikolai's world as the suits in his closet and the guns probably hidden in the walls.
Her fingers curled around a bottle of dark liquor. She didn't check the label. Didn't care. She poured herself a drink with shaky hands, brought it to her lips, and took a long swallow.
It burned going down. A fiery trail that settled in her stomach, but didn't warm her. It never did. Still, she poured again. And again.
Time didn't exist in moments like this.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Eventually, her walls began to crack.
Her tears came without warning, sudden and overwhelming, sliding down her cheeks as she sat down on the velvet stool in front of the bar and rested her elbows on the marble. She put her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling with sobs.
It wasn't quiet crying. Not the kind you hide beneath the blankets. No—this was raw, ugly, real.
"I hate this," she whispered to the empty room, her voice breaking. "I hate all of it."
She poured another drink, only half-heartedly now. Her throat hurt. Her eyes were red and puffy. She laughed, the sound soaked in bitterness.
"Why does life have to be so damn unfair?" she muttered, gripping the glass with white-knuckled fingers. "Why do I have to love him? Out of all the people in the world…"
She sniffed hard, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and stared at the liquor like it could give her answers. "Why does he have to love me so much and still be this… monster?"
And that was the truth, wasn't it?
She loved a man who destroyed lives for a living. Who led an empire built on suffering. And yet, he looked at her like she was the only piece of heaven he ever had. How could two such violently opposing truths exist at the same time?
She didn't hear the door open behind her.
But Nikolai had been lying awake too.
He'd heard her steps, the flick of the light switches, and then the rustle of glass. He hadn't moved. Not until he heard the crying.
Real crying.
The kind that stabbed him in the chest with guilt sharper than any blade.
"Elara?" he called gently as he stepped into the room.
She jumped slightly, startled by his voice. Her eyes met his, and her lips parted, but no words came. Just more tears. Without thinking, she stood up and walked toward him. Her steps were uneven, her body slightly swaying, her breath shaky and quick.
And then she broke.
She pressed her face into his chest, gripping the front of his shirt as the sobs tore out of her like a storm.
"I'm so confused," she cried, the words muffled against him. "I don't know what to do. I hate this—I hate everything."
He froze, arms hovering in the air for a moment before slowly wrapping them around her. Carefully. As if he was afraid he might break her with his touch.
"Elara…" His voice was low, thick with emotion. "It's okay. You're okay."
"No, I'm not!" she shouted, pulling back just enough to look up at him. Her tear-streaked face was flushed, her hands still trembling. "Why does life have to be so unfair? Why do you have to be so unfair?"
He opened his mouth, but she didn't give him a chance to answer.
"Why do you have to love me so much," she said, her voice cracking, "and then go out into the world and be a monster? Why do you have to make me love you and then ruin everything? Why?"
Nikolai felt his heart twist inside his chest. Her pain was so raw, so real. There were no lies here, no facades, no power games—just a woman torn in half.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
But it wasn't enough.
She stared at him through the tears, her lips trembling—and then she leaned in and kissed him.
It was sudden. Desperate.
A plea.
His instincts screamed to pull back. He knew she wasn't in her right mind—between the alcohol and the grief. But her mouth was on his, her fingers tangled in his shirt, and for a second he lost himself in the warmth of it, in the familiar sweetness that only she could bring.
Then he stopped.
He pulled back, gently but firmly, resting his forehead against hers. "Elara, no. Not like this. You're not okay right now."
"I don't care," she whispered, her voice broken, desperate. "I need to feel something that doesn't hurt."
He closed his eyes, gripping her arms to steady her. "I do care. You'll hate me in the morning if I don't stop this. And even if you don't—I'll hate myself."
But she didn't move.
She pressed closer, trying again.
And this time, Nikolai—despite every warning bell in his head—gave in.
Because she needed him.
And God help him, he needed her too.