The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing the pristine interior of the penthouse bathed in golden hues of the setting sun. Elara stepped in quietly, the echo of her soft-soled shoes against the marble floor the only sound that filled the stillness. The pharmacy bag clutched in her hand felt heavier than it should have. Not because of the contents, but because of what it meant.
She had taken the pill. The consequences of last night were now hopefully buried beneath it, swallowed with a dry throat and shaky hands. She hadn't looked at herself in the mirror after. She couldn't.
Nikolai was in the living room, seated on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. His eyes lifted the moment she entered, like he had been waiting for the sound of the door.
He stood up instantly.
"Elara," he said, his voice taut with concern. "Are you okay? I was worried… you didn't say anything when you left."
She didn't meet his gaze. Her face was calm, unreadable, polished into the kind of neutral expression that could only be worn by someone desperately trying to hold themselves together.
"I'm fine," she replied quietly.
He frowned, stepping forward. "Elara, wait—"
She brushed past him without looking up, her shoulder just grazing his arm. But he reached out and caught her wrist gently, stopping her in place.
"Please," he said softly. "We need to talk."
She exhaled slowly through her nose, eyes closing momentarily.
"There's nothing to talk about," she said without turning around. "Last night was a mistake."
Nikolai went still, like her words had struck a vein.
"It wasn't," he said after a moment, his voice low and firm. "Don't say that."
She turned to face him, her eyes glittering with something between anguish and fury.
"I was drunk, Nikolai," she snapped. "Emotionally wrecked, confused, vulnerable. I didn't know what I was doing."
"But I did," he said, his gaze holding hers. "And I didn't take advantage of you. I tried to stop it. You didn't want me to."
"Don't throw that back at me," she whispered. "You could have said no."
"And then what?" he asked, pain rising in his voice. "Watched you cry yourself to sleep? Watched you hate me from across the hallway for the rest of our lives? Do you think I wanted that to happen the way it did? No. But it happened, and I'm not going to pretend it didn't mean anything."
She yanked her hand from his grasp, stepping back.
"It meant something to you," she said bitterly. "To me, it was a moment of weakness. One that I now have to fix with a damn pill."
Nikolai's jaw clenched, his eyes hardening slightly.
"You think I wanted to put you in this position?" he said. "You think I don't hate myself for all of this? I never wanted to be the man who breaks the woman he loves."
She laughed, a short, humorless sound.
"Then maybe you shouldn't be the man who ruins lives for a living."
The silence stretched between them like a blade.
He didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He just stood there, absorbing the impact of her truth. Because it was the truth. And it was one he had carried like a second skin since he was old enough to understand what blood money smelled like.
"I want to leave," she said finally, voice trembling. "I need to leave. Not forever. Just… I need a break. A moment to think."
The breath he took was sharp, and then his arms were around her before she could step away.
He pulled her against his chest, so tightly that she could feel the beat of his heart thundering against her ribs. One arm was wrapped around her waist, the other buried in her hair as if anchoring her to him was the only thing keeping him together.
"No," he murmured, over and over into her hair. "No. No, I can't lose you. Not even for a second. I can't."
She stood stiff in his embrace, her hands curled into fists at her sides. But she didn't pull away. Not yet.
"Of course," she said after a long moment, her voice hollow. "What was I expecting? Asking a man who cages others for a living to let me walk away, even for a day."
"That's not fair," he whispered.
"Neither is this," she whispered back.
He held her tighter.
And for a moment, they just stood there. Locked together in a war neither of them knew how to win.
Elara tried to pull herself away from the iron grip that held her heart captive. Her hands braced against Nikolai's chest, but he didn't budge. His embrace tightened just slightly, his breath warm against her hair as he whispered, "As long as you don't say the words 'I'm leaving,' I'll let go."
His voice was low, rough, almost trembling. The desperation in it sent a chill down her spine. Elara closed her eyes, forcing her emotions into a tight box. "Let go," she said softly, voice a whisper of exhaustion, but her words carried weight. "Please."
Just then, a firm knock broke the heavy silence.
Nikolai exhaled, reluctant. With a groan of frustration, he let go, brushing his knuckles against her arm one last time as if it might tether her spirit to him. He walked toward the door, dragging a hand through his hair, already bracing himself for whatever was on the other side.
But nothing could have prepared him for who it was.
The moment the door swung open, a cold wind of dread swept into the room—not from outside, but from the sheer presence of the man standing in the doorway.
Mikhail Volkov.
His grandfather.
Nikolai's heart didn't quite stop—but it stuttered. The man standing in the hallway wore a dark wool coat over a three-piece suit. His cane, more accessory than necessity, tapped once on the marble floor as he stepped in uninvited. His sharp, hawk-like eyes roamed the space, finally settling on Nikolai with a gaze that said: You better have a damn good reason for making me come all this way.
"I called you three times this morning," Mikhail said, his deep voice smooth and composed, like a man used to speaking commands instead of words. "You didn't answer. I thought maybe you were dead." He stepped inside like he owned the place—because in a way, he did. His presence swallowed the room.
Elara stood frozen in place near the couch, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't need an introduction. She knew who he was—the man whose name made men disappear, whose whispers could drown an entire empire in blood.
"And is this the girl," Mikhail continued casually, eyes now on her, "that your father said you were going to marry in the family group chat?"
"Marry?" Elara choked on the word like it was made of glass. Her wide eyes snapped to Nikolai. "Nikolai, what is he talking about?"
"It's... it's just..." Nikolai fumbled. "Grandfather, you shouldn't be here."
Mikhail raised one heavy brow, an expression of mock surprise that quickly turned to scornful amusement. "You think I need permission to enter a building that exists because of my empire?" He walked further in, waving his hand around. "This penthouse was bought with the money earned from the sweat and blood of generations—my father started it, I built it into what it is today, and your father is just keeping it warm for you. So yes, I can be here."
He turned toward the mini-bar tucked into the corner of the open-plan living space. "Now... where's the Vodka your mother keeps bragging about? She says you stock the good stuff here." Mikhail dropped his cane against the counter with a solid clunk and opened a cabinet like he lived there. "Pour me a glass, grandson. I'll be here for a while."
Nikolai sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He shot Elara an apologetic look, but she was already gathering her things.
"I should go," she murmured.
"No, sit down, girl," Mikhail said firmly without looking at her. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried authority like a knife carries an edge. "I actually came here to threaten Nikolai for ignoring my calls, but then I saw you. So I'm staying."
"Mikhail—Dedushka—please," Nikolai said, his tone tight. "We can talk later about... penthouse ownership and money. But not now. You're scaring her."
Mikhail finally turned to face him, glass in hand. "Me? Or is it you?" he asked, sipping slowly. "Don't be dramatic. I haven't killed anyone today... yet."
Elara blinked. The man was serious. Or maybe he wasn't. But that was the thing about monsters—you never quite knew when they were joking.
Mikhail studied her, now with a different kind of gaze. Not cold. Not warm either. Calculating. He tilted his head, tapping the side of his glass. "You love him?"
The question hit her like a slap. She didn't answer.
"Because he's been a damn idiot since you showed up," he continued. "Brooding. Emotional. Acting like his balls dropped off. And if you don't love him, then for God's sake, put him out of his misery and leave."
"Dedushka," Nikolai snapped, stepping forward.
"No, no, I'm serious." Mikhail turned to Elara again. "I've seen what men like us do when we're in love. And let me tell you, it's not pretty. We ruin things trying to protect them. We smother. We cage. And sometimes... we burn the whole world just so they can sleep peacefully." He looked down into his drink. "But we do love. In our own twisted way."
Elara sat back down slowly, numb. Her hands were trembling. She didn't know what scared her more—the fact that Mikhail was here, or the fact that he understood exactly what she had been feeling. Maybe both.
Nikolai stood rooted in place, struggling between embarrassment, frustration, and something else—shame. His grandfather was a legend in the underworld, feared across continents. But here he was, giving love advice like some retired mobster-turned-therapist.
"I didn't say I was going to marry her," Nikolai muttered, almost to himself.
"Well, your father did," Mikhail snapped. "And now the entire family group chat is planning a damn wedding. Your aunt Galina's already found three venues."
Elara blinked. "What?"
Mikhail shrugged. "Family business moves fast."
"Okay, that's enough." Nikolai finally took control, walking toward Mikhail and gently nudging him toward the door. "You came. You saw. You traumatized. Now leave."
"I haven't even finished my vodka," Mikhail protested.
"I'll bring a bottle next time. Please, Dedushka."
Mikhail sighed like a man deeply inconvenienced, but finally moved toward the door. "Alright, alright. But you know what I think? I think she does love you. That's why she looks like she's on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And you—you look like a puppy someone kicked into traffic." He pointed a finger at Nikolai. "Fix this."
Nikolai opened the door.
"Oh, and Elara?" Mikhail said, pausing.
She looked up.
"If he ever raises his hand at you, shoot him. Preferably in the leg. Let him limp for a while."
With that, he left.
The door shut behind him, and the silence returned like a heavy cloak.
Elara rubbed her temples. "That was your grandfather?"
Nikolai nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Jesus Christ," she muttered. "I think I aged five years."
Nikolai laughed softly. "That makes two of us."
But she didn't laugh. She stood up, her eyes unreadable now. "Marry?"
"I didn't say that," he said quickly.
"But you didn't correct your father either."
He opened his mouth, closed it again.
Elara stepped away, suddenly needing distance. "I need... I need time to think."
Nikolai reached for her hand again, gently this time. "Don't run."
"I'm not running," she whispered. "But maybe... maybe I need to start walking away before I lose myself in all this."
He said nothing.
And for once, neither did she.