Elara sat alone in the guest bedroom, the silence wrapping itself around her like a suffocating blanket. The golden-orange hue of the sunset slipped lazily through the closed curtains, casting streaks of amber across the floor, but even the light couldn't lift the heaviness in her chest. Her legs were curled up against her, arms wrapped tightly around her knees as if trying to hold herself together.
She sighed.
God, this was getting harder.
Everything inside her felt tangled and raw—like a ball of frayed wires sparking every time she breathed too deeply. Her heart ached with confusion, frustration, and something far more painful than anger—grief. Grief for a love that felt like it shouldn't exist, and grief for the version of herself that used to believe love would always feel safe.
Why did love have to hurt so damn much?
Why did it have to be this confusing? This consuming?
A bitter laugh slipped past her lips. Maybe she was being dramatic. Maybe not. After all, she wasn't just in love with any man. She was in love with a Bratva prince—a man raised in blood, power, and ruthless legacy. A man whose heart belonged to her, but whose soul was married to an empire built on pain.
She had no idea how to reconcile that.
Her head fell back against the wall with a dull thud. Maybe she should just accept him for who he was. Maybe she should surrender to this strange, broken kind of love and learn to live in the darkness with him. People compromised all the time in relationships, right?
But that was easier said than done.
Because how was she supposed to sleep beside a man she knew commanded lives and deaths with a single order? A man who signed off on the transport and sale of girls. Young, scared girls. Innocents.
She couldn't.
She just couldn't.
The very thought made her skin crawl with unease, made her want to claw at her chest to make the guilt go away. Because even loving him felt like betrayal—to herself, to the world, to those girls whose names she would never know.
Maybe escape was the only answer.
But... escape? Could she even pull that off?
She knew the answer before her mind could fully entertain the idea. It wasn't just difficult—it was nearly impossible. Nikolai was Bratva. He had eyes and ears in places she didn't even know existed. He could track a person by scent if he had to.
If she ran, how far could she really go before he found her? Outside the city? Maybe. Out of the country? Doubtful. Hell, she might not even make it past the city limits before one of his men dragged her back. And what would happen then?
Would he chain her in the name of love?
Would he cage her with love, devotion, and obsession?
Still, a part of her whispered that maybe it was worth the try. If only to taste freedom for a second. But if she were to go... she needed a flawless plan. No mistakes. No trail.
She sighed again and rubbed at her temples.
There was a war going on inside her—a brutal tug of war between her heart and her mind. Her heart, soft and fragile, beat only for Nikolai. It remembered the man who brought her coffee just the way she liked it, the man who carried her when her feet hurt, the man who looked at her like she was the last remaining light in his dark world. That man loved her with a terrifying depth. The kind of love that scorched, that consumed.
But her mind...
Her mind screamed logic and self-preservation. It reminded her that this man also signed deals that sold humans. That he had the power to decide who lived or died and often didn't blink when making those decisions. That he was the nightmare mothers warned their daughters about.
It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, pulled in both directions, knowing that either fall would break her.
And the worst part?
She couldn't talk to anyone about it. Not Maya. Not anyone.
Because telling someone meant putting them in danger. If she even whispered the truth to Maya, her best friend would probably do something reckless—like try to get help. Maybe even go to the police. And in the Bratva world, that wasn't brave. That was suicidal. There were no safe boundaries once you were inside the cage, and dragging someone else in with her would only get them killed. Or worse.
Her breath hitched as she ran a hand through her hair, tugging slightly at the strands, trying to anchor herself back into the moment.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She flinched, heart jumping into her throat as though it were Nikolai again—another attempt to talk. Another heartfelt monologue. But when she picked it up, her eyes narrowed.
It was an email.
From her boss.
She rolled her eyes, already irritated. Of course. It was probably another assignment—another headache masked as "trust" and "opportunity."
She opened the email.
> Elara,
We've just gotten a high-profile client who wants a proposal on interior design concepts by Monday. I've attached the brief with their requirements and aesthetic vision. You're the only one I trust to get this done properly. I know it's short notice, but I believe in your ability to deliver.
Of course. Of course.
It was Wednesday. That gave her less than five days. And she knew that when she went in tomorrow, there would be more piled on her plate. Her boss was infamous for dumping last-minute tasks on the person he thought could "handle it best."
Read: Elara.
The corner of her lip twitched—not in amusement, but in frustration. "You believe in me," she muttered bitterly. "No, you believe I won't tell you to go to hell like the others do."
Still, she stared at the attached client brief. It was long, meticulous, filled with high expectations. The client wanted a modern, minimalist concept with neutral tones and wood-accented details. They were opening a boutique wellness center and wanted the atmosphere to be calm, healing, almost zen-like.
Elara let out a breath.
Well, at least it wasn't another luxury bachelor pad filled with tacky gold finishes and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She'd take wellness over narcissism any day.
And maybe—just maybe—this would help.
Maybe this could help her forget, even for a few hours.
The chaos in her head. The ache in her chest. The taste of his skin still lingering on her lips. The way his eyes pleaded with her like he was dying and she was the only cure.
She couldn't afford to fall apart again. Not tonight.
With new determination, she rose from the bed, gathered her laptop and notepad, and moved to the corner table near the window. She tied her hair up into a loose bun, rolled up the sleeves of her hoodie, and opened the file. She spread out the printouts, samples, and her sketchpad.
The world was still a storm. Nikolai was still the thundercloud she couldn't escape. But here, at this desk, in this tiny corner, was a sliver of control.
Work didn't demand her heart.
It didn't make her question her morality.
It didn't hold her at night and promise things it could never give.
It just asked for focus. For execution. For effort.
And for now, that was enough.
So she began.
Color palettes. Mood boards. Floorplans.
She didn't even realize how much time had passed. The city had grown quiet, the skies dimmed to night, and her thoughts—at least temporarily—were her own.
And in that stillness, for the first time in what felt like days, she allowed herself to exhale.
-------
It was 1:13 AM when Elara finally decided she'd had enough. Her eyes were tired, burning from hours of staring at the glowing screen of her iPad, and her mind buzzed with fragments of designs that never quite came together. She didn't know how many layouts she had deleted by now—ten? Fifteen? All because they lacked that spark, that thing that made them feel right.
She sighed.
At least one design had made the cut. It wasn't perfect, but it was solid, a foundation she could build on. A few more to go. But not now. Her body was done. She saved the draft, closed her design software, and turned off both the iPad and laptop with a soft click. Her limbs were stiff as she stood, sore from hours spent hunched over the desk in the corner.
Stretching, she winced at the pops and protests of her joints. She ran a hand through her hair, now falling loose from the bun, and made her way to the door. A drink. That's all she needed—something cold to soothe the dryness in her throat and maybe help her sleep. The hallway light was already on, which struck her as odd. Nikolai always turned them off before heading to bed. He was meticulous like that.
Frowning, she stepped into the hallway.
And stopped.
Her eyes narrowed.
There—faint but unmistakable—was a trail of dark red on the polished marble floor. Drops of blood, spaced like footsteps. Her heart seized in her chest. A fresh wave of nausea rose.
Someone was hurt.
Her first thought was to run. Her second thought? Nikolai.
Who would dare break in here?
With shaking hands, she followed the trail slowly, every muscle in her body tense with apprehension. The trail led to the living room. The air was heavy there, tense, filled with a coppery scent that made her stomach twist. She leaned around the corner and peeked in.
What she saw made her heart drop.
Nikolai was slouched on the couch, shirtless, sweat beading on his forehead. His normally pristine appearance was replaced by something raw and painful. His body was half-illuminated by the dim light above, casting shadows that made the hard lines of his torso look even harsher. Blood stained the side of his torso, just beneath his ribs. A bullet wound. And in his hand, he held a scalpel.
Beside him: a bottle of whiskey, an open first-aid kit, and blood-soaked gauze.
"Nikolai..." Elara whispered, her voice barely a breath.
His head jerked up, the motion strained. His eyes looked dull, forced to stay open through sheer willpower. Pain etched into his features.
"Go back to bed," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
Elara stepped into the room, ignoring the chill that ran down her spine.
"Oh my God. What happened?"
He looked away, jaw tightening. "It's nothing. Just... go back to sleep."
"This is not nothing, Nikolai!" she snapped. Her eyes darted to the scalpel. "You're bleeding. You're trying to remove a bullet yourself. Are you insane?"
He gritted his teeth. "Solnishka, don't. I have to take it out. It's close to the surface. I can do it."
"Why not get a doctor?" she demanded.
"I don't trust anyone right now," he hissed. "Especially not after tonight. It was an ambush."
She felt her blood run cold. "An ambush?"
He nodded weakly. "Someone tipped off a supplier. It was meant to be a simple deal. Turned into a firefight."
"Jesus Christ," she muttered, kneeling down next to him. "You bratva asshole."
Despite the pain, he smiled faintly. "That's new."
She exhaled shakily. "Let me help."
His brow creased. "Are you sure?"
She nodded, even if her hands trembled. "You'll have to tell me what to do. I'm not a nurse. But I can follow instructions. Besides... this doesn't mean I forgave you. And it definitely doesn't mean I'm not still thinking about escaping. I just... I'm worried, okay?"
His smile deepened just a fraction, his hand brushing against hers. "I'll take it."