It was exactly 6:30 a.m. when her alarm went off, shrill and unforgiving. Elara groaned, the sound cutting through the silence of the room like a blade. She slapped a hand against her phone, silencing the device, and pulled the covers over her head, squeezing her eyes shut.
But sleep wouldn't return. It never did when she needed it most.
"I hate everything," she muttered into the sheets, her voice muffled by exhaustion.
Her body felt like lead—every muscle sore, her limbs weighed down by the emotional wreckage of the night before. She felt like she'd spent the entire night carrying invisible boulders, not sleeping. Her eyelids were heavy, her brain foggy, and her heart ached in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.
Dragging herself upright, Elara sat at the edge of the bed, running a hand down her face as if that could clear away the fatigue. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat, a reminder of just how little rest she'd gotten. Less than three hours. Maybe less than two.
Somehow, her feet moved. She shuffled toward the en suite bathroom, not out of motivation but obligation. She had work, and if she didn't get ready now, she'd regret it later. Her boss wasn't the kind of man to show mercy for tired eyes or emotional turmoil. He smiled while piling more projects onto her desk like he was doing her a favor.
Inside the bathroom, the mirror greeted her with a version of herself she barely recognized—pale, puffy-eyed, emotionally raw. She didn't let herself linger on it.
She brushed her teeth in silence, the mint stinging her mouth more than usual. The hot shower helped, if only slightly. The water ran down her skin like a fleeting relief, washing away the remnants of last night—the tears, the fear, the cold sweat from watching Nikolai bleed, from pulling a bullet out of his body with trembling hands.
She dressed slowly, choosing her clothes with mechanical precision. Slacks, a fitted blouse, a pair of modest heels—nothing that drew attention, nothing too soft or too bold. Just safe. Just presentable.
By the time she packed her laptop and files into her bag, she felt marginally more like a functioning human. Her muscles still ached. Her heart still thudded painfully against her ribs. But she could fake it. She had to.
She opened the door to the guest room and stepped into the hallway. The lights were already on, soft and warm against the hardwood floor. Her feet padded quietly toward the kitchen, her mind already dreading the commute, the emails, the design brief that waited for her.
What she wasn't expecting was the smell of food.
Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Butter.
She paused mid-step, brow furrowing. "Hell no," she whispered under her breath.
She turned the corner and walked into the kitchen—and there he was.
Nikolai.
Shirtless.
At the stove.
Making breakfast.
As if he hadn't been bleeding out on their living room couch just hours ago.
She blinked once. Twice.
"Nikolai," she said sharply, her voice low and dangerous, "get away from the damn stove."
He looked over his shoulder at her, like a man caught red-handed. His face was pale, his body visibly favoring one side, but there he was, flipping an omelet like this was any normal morning.
"Good morning to you too," he said casually, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Move," she snapped, marching toward him. "You just got shot last night! What is wrong with you? Move before I punch you straight on your wound and your stitches rip open."
He winced and raised his hands in mock surrender, backing away slowly from the stove like a mischievous schoolboy caught by a teacher. "Okay, okay," he said, limping slightly as he took a seat at the kitchen island. "You know you're dangerous when you talk like that."
"Sit down and stay there," she ordered, checking to make sure he obeyed. He did.
Elara turned her attention to the stove, silently muttering curses under her breath as she took over the half-made breakfast. She moved with practiced efficiency—flipping the eggs, browning the toast, pouring the coffee—all while ignoring the way his eyes followed her every move.
Nikolai leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the counter and watching her like he'd never seen anything more important in his life.
To him, she wasn't just a woman in his kitchen.
She was everything.
He watched her tie her hair up again, loose strands falling around her face, her brows furrowed in irritation. She was annoyed with him, sure, but she was also taking care of him. And that meant more than she probably realized.
He couldn't help but imagine it—mornings like this every day. Her in the kitchen, him behind her teasing her with remarks that made her eyes roll but her heart flutter. Maybe a kiss on the cheek as she cooked. Maybe bickering about who drank the last cup of coffee. Maybe peace. Maybe love. If only.
If only she would accept all of him—the man and the monster.
If only she'd ignore the blood on his hands, the sins stitched into his name.
If only she didn't want to leave for work so badly.
If only she didn't hate part of him.
If only he could take her, lock her in his bedroom, chain her to him so she could never walk away again.
If only he could cage her. His innocent caged bunny.
But no. Not yet.
Not unless he had to.
For now, it was enough that she still lived under his roof. That she hadn't run. That her footsteps still echoed in his hallway and her scent lingered in the sheets of the guest room. For now, it was enough.
She plated the food and slid it in front of him without a word, then poured herself some coffee.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
She gave him a tight nod, sipping her coffee like it was the only thing keeping her sane.
"You don't have to do this, you know," he added, watching her carefully.
Elara raised a brow. "Do what?"
"Make me breakfast. Take care of me. Worry."
She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes tired but burning with something fierce.
"I told you already," she said. "I hate you. But that doesn't mean I'm gonna let you bleed to death in front of me like some kind of psycho. You need to stay alive."
He gave a soft smile. "You say that like it's so easy. But I've lived in this world too long. I don't even notice when I'm hurt anymore."
She leaned on the counter across from him. "Well, maybe that's the problem. Maybe you should start noticing. Because every time you get hurt, I feel it too. And I don't know how many more bullets I can emotionally survive."
The air between them thickened, heavy with unsaid things. He looked down at his plate, then back at her.
"Do you ever think," he asked quietly, "that maybe this could work? You and me. In spite of all the darkness?"
"I think about it every day," she admitted, her voice just above a whisper. "And every day I come to the same conclusion."
"What's that?"
"That I don't know."
They fell into silence, the only sound the soft clinking of his fork against the plate and the low hum of the refrigerator.
She glanced at the clock. 7:15 a.m.
Time to go.
"I have to get to work," she said, finishing her coffee and rinsing the mug.
He nodded, standing slowly. "Let me walk you out."
She looked at him sternly. "You're not going anywhere. Sit. Rest."
He smirked. "Bossy."
"I learned from the best."
He chuckled, then sat back down, one hand resting against his bandaged side.
She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, walking toward the door.
"Elara," he called softly.
She turned.
"I'll be here when you get back."
She paused for a breath, her throat tightening.
"Don't bleed out while I'm gone."
He smiled, a real one this time. "I'll try my best."
And with that, she stepped out into the world again, the weight of the man behind her heavier than ever.
Elara pulled into the underground parking of the design firm, the soft purr of the Audi's engine echoing off the concrete walls. She parked in the far corner—she always did that now, hoping fewer people would see her stepping out of a car that screamed money, power, and dangerously off-limits.
As the engine turned off, silence blanketed the space. She gripped the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary, her fingers clenched around the leather. Her knuckles turned white.
A sigh slipped past her lips.
She hated arriving here like this. In this car. In this lie.
From the outside, it looked like she had it all together. She drove a luxury car.Had that faint air of someone connected to power. But it wasn't real. It was borrowed status. All of it handed to her—not because she'd earned it—but because Nikolai had ordered her to take it. Like everything with him lately, there was no discussion. Just commands coated in velvet.
She stepped out of the Audi, grabbing her bag from the passenger seat. Her heels clicked softly against the polished cement floor as she made her way toward the elevator. She tried not to flinch at her own reflection in the car window—eyes tired, lips pressed into a hard line, expression carefully blank.
The elevator dinged open. She stepped inside and hit the button for the third floor, where the interior design department was.
Breathe, she reminded herself. Just breathe.
But breathing didn't make the knots in her stomach loosen. It didn't stop the phantom echo of last night's tension from replaying in her mind—the blood, the scalpel, her shaking hands removing a bullet, the fear that clawed at her throat when she thought she might lose him. Again.
You can hate him later, she told herself. Right now, just focus on your job.
The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, revealing the sleek, modern open-plan office. Glass partitions, wood finishes, minimalist lighting. A Pinterest board brought to life. Elara stepped out, the buzz of early morning productivity already humming through the air.
Her heels clicked quietly on the hardwood floor as she made her way to her desk. She passed coworkers—some already sipping their first coffees, others typing furiously or chatting in low voices. Heads turned as she walked by. She could feel their eyes. The curious glances, the not-so-subtle nudges.
She didn't even have to look up to know what they were thinking.
There she is.
Miss Rich Boyfriend.
Did he buy her a house yet?
Wonder if they met on a yacht.
She slid into her desk chair and exhaled, placing her bag under the table. She powered on her computer and opened her project files, letting the screen be her shield.
"Elara," a familiar voice called out, all too cheerfully. "Morning!"
She looked up. Jenny.Always too nosy for her own good. A senior designer with a flair for gossip and nails sharp enough to tear into reputations.
"Morning," Elara responded, forcing a polite smile.
Jenny perched on the edge of Elara's desk like a bird circling its prey. "So," she began, dragging the word like it was a slow ribbon of silk. "I saw the car again this morning. That same Audi. It is yours, right?"
Elara kept her tone even. "It's… shared."
"Shared," Jenny echoed, eyes sparkling. "Right. Shared with the billionaire boyfriend?"
Elara bit the inside of her cheek. "He let me use it since my old car broke down."
Jenny raised a perfectly manicured brow. "Let you. That sounds serious."
Elara's smile thinned. "It's not."
"You know everyone here is dying to know if he's going to put a ring on it." Jenny winked.
"Everyone should probably focus on their design briefs," Elara said, finally lifting her eyes to meet Tamryn's. Her tone was calm but firm. Not today.
Jenny gave a mock pout and laughed. "Fine, fine. But you can't blame us for being curious. I mean, we still don't even know his name. You've been so private about him."
Elara's eyes returned to her screen. "Maybe because I like it that way."
Jenny held her hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. But when the engagement happens, don't forget to invite me to the party."
With that, she sauntered off, hips swinging, her laughter trailing behind her like expensive perfume.
Elara's fingers hovered over her keyboard for a moment. Then, finally, she exhaled. She wanted to scream. Or crawl under her desk and disappear. But instead, she opened her design brief.
The email from her boss had been specific. A new high-profile client had come in—one of those luxury hotel chains with impossibly high standards and expectations. They wanted three preliminary design concepts for a resort lobby and lounge by Monday morning. Today was Thursday. That gave her three days. Three days to be brilliant.
Of course, the email had come with a glowing note from her boss:
> "You're the best at making chaos look like elegance. You've got this, Elara."
Yeah, she thought bitterly. And you're the best at loading all the work on my shoulders because I can't say no.
She opened the client's mood board—a mess of Pinterest links and vague notes like "make it feel like summer and champagne" and "modern, but not cold" and "elegant, but not expensive."
Designing for rich people was exhausting.
As she sketched ideas and flipped through her digital material samples, her mind wandered. To Nikolai. To his face twisted in pain as he tried to stitch himself up. To the warmth of his body when she helped him to bed.
She worked like that for hours, chasing the perfect balance of class and warmth, drawing from her own tired heart to design something that felt like home but wasn't hers.
Lunchtime came and went. She barely noticed.
More people stopped by her desk. Some with work questions. Others just to see. She heard whispered conversations behind her. Mentions of her name. The word Audi. Boyfriend. Marry.
She was beginning to feel like a fish in a gold tank—pretty to look at, but always on display.
When her boss, Mr. Lennox, finally approached, she braced herself.
"Elara," he said smoothly, smiling that too-bright smile that meant more work. "Can I steal you for a second?"
She followed him to his office. He closed the door and gestured to the chair across from his desk.
"I wanted to check on your progress for the Veranda Group," he said, taking a seat.
"I've finished the first concept and I'm drafting the other two," she replied.
"I knew you'd handle it," he said. "You're always dependable. But listen…" He leaned in slightly. "I might need you to work on another concept for the Lakeside project. Just a backup presentation. I'd normally give it to someone else, but, you know, your attention to detail…"
Elara swallowed. "That's due next week, right?"
He nodded. "Just something preliminary. You're not overwhelmed, are you?"
She smiled. "No. Of course not."
Liar.
"Great," he said, standing. "Because you're our star. And your… well, your life outside the office is starting to generate a bit of buzz. Clients are intrigued. Having someone who's a little… connected is good for business."
Connected.
Like she was some shiny thing on display to attract more attention.
She nodded again, excused herself, and went back to her desk.
By the end of the day, her head was pounding. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and forget this place existed. But she knew what waited at home too.
Nikolai.
And all the love and pain that came with him.