Sunday afternoon.
The sun filtered faintly through the gauzy curtains of the master bedroom, casting warm streaks of light across the room. But for Elara, the light didn't reach her. It felt muted. Trapped. Just like her. She sat curled on the window seat across from the bed, staring down at the quiet city below. She could hear life buzzing outside—cars honking, birds chirping, people laughing—but in this penthouse, everything was quiet. Too quiet.
Because she wasn't free.
Because he was keeping her here.
Her stomach turned with silent resentment as she placed a hand gently over her lower belly. The baby. The reason she was no longer trusted to walk freely in the world. The reason he was gripping her life like a clenched fist.
She had eaten earlier—not because she wanted to, but because she had no choice. If she hadn't eaten, Nikolai would've stood there and watched her until she did. Maybe even fed her himself. She hated him for it. She hated this situation. She hated herself for being too exhausted to fight more than she already had.
The doorknob turned.
She stiffened slightly but didn't turn around. She knew the sound of his footsteps, the weight of them, calm but commanding. She heard the door close softly behind him.
"Elara," Nikolai said gently.
She didn't look at him. Her voice came cold and clipped. "What do you want?"
He exhaled quietly, trying to control his tone. He walked closer, not enough to invade her space, but enough to show he wasn't leaving right away. "I'm going home," he said. "It's our usual Sunday family lunch. I'll try to be back as early as I can. Please… take care of yourself while I'm gone."
Elara let out a hollow laugh, her eyes still locked on the window. "Do I look like I have a choice in the matter?"
"Elara—"
"No." She turned her head sharply toward him now, eyes flashing. "Don't. Just don't start with your sweet voice and concerned act like you're not holding me prisoner. Tell me, Nikolai—what's the plan here? Are you going to stop me from going to work tomorrow too? Are you going to cut off everyone in my life while you're at it? My parents? Maya? My coworkers?"
Nikolai's face hardened. "Elara, this isn't what I—"
"You're not thinking this through," she snapped. "It's only a matter of time before people notice. You think I'm going to disappear and no one will care? My parents will know something is wrong. Maya will start digging. My boss—my entire office will notice when I don't show up to work. Are you going to murder them all? Is that your plan? Lock me in here and eliminate anyone who realizes I'm gone?"
The silence that followed was brutal.
Then he spoke—slowly, coldly, with the calm threat of a man who had lived too long on the edge of morality.
"If that's what it takes," he said, his voice low and final, "then yes. I will."
Her breath caught.
"I don't want to do this," he continued, voice tightening. "I hate this. Do you think I enjoy seeing you like this? Do you think this is what I imagined when I fell in love with you? No. But you left me no choice. You were going to erase our child. You didn't tell me, you didn't even talk to me. You went behind my back, booked an appointment like I didn't matter."
"You don't get to—"
"I do," he snapped, eyes flashing now. "This is my child too, Elara. Mine. And I'll be damned if I let you take him—or her—from me."
She looked away, disgust written across her face. "You don't love me, Nikolai. You love owning me."
He stepped forward then, suddenly, and knelt in front of her. The movement was startling, and for a moment she froze.
"I love you more than I love air," he said, his voice raw. "But I won't let you destroy the only good thing we have left between us. So yes, you'll go to work tomorrow—but if you say anything, if you make even one mistake, if you even hint to anyone that something is wrong…" His voice lowered to a near-whisper, but the venom was unmistakable. "The next headline will be your death. And believe me—I've faked more deaths than you can imagine. I don't need to think about how to do it. I already know how."
She stared at him, heart pounding with rage, fear, and something else—something broken.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
"I'm the monster who loves you," he said.
He stood up, slow and controlled, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve like her words didn't hit him. "You'll have your access card for work tomorrow. Your phone will stay monitored. If I hear or see anything I don't like—anything at all—it ends. All of it. And I will make the world think you're dead."
He turned and walked toward the door. For a moment, his hand paused on the handle.
"Elara… please don't make me do something we'll both regret."
And with that, he stepped out and shut the door behind him, locking it with the soft but damning click that echoed through the room like a cell door closing.
Elara sat there, trembling—not with fear, but with fury.
And with resolve.
He thought she wouldn't fight.
But he had no idea just how far she was willing to go to get her freedom back.
The Volkov mansion stood regal and silent on the outside, but the second Nikolai stepped through the heavy oak doors, the noise and chaos inside nearly overwhelmed him. The smell of roasted garlic and fresh herbs wafted through the air, blending with the scent of polished wood, leather furniture, and too much ego in one building.
As expected, everyone was already there.
His grandfather, Mikhail, sat in his usual spot by the grand window, a thick Russian newspaper spread across his lap. He muttered curses under his breath in Russian, the kind that would make a priest sweat, shaking his head every few lines.
"Corrupt idiots. They sell off the country like it's a damn flea market," he muttered. "If I were still in charge, I'd have half of them lined up against the wall."
Across from him, Viktoria, his wife and eternal picture of class, sat on a velvet chaise lounge, one leg elegantly crossed over the other as she painted her nails a lethal shade of crimson. "You say that every week, Mikhail," she said without looking up.
"That's because it gets worse every week," Mikhail grumbled.
At the center of the room, Nikolai's father Dimitri was hunched over a brain teaser puzzle, one eye narrowed in concentration, the other twitching with frustration.
"I used to solve this in under five minutes back in my day," Dimitri said confidently to his daughter, Anya, who was perched on the arm of the couch, watching with amusement.
Anya glanced up as Nikolai entered, a grin spreading across her face. "Hey, Nik. You're just in time. Dad's about to publicly embarrass himself."
"I already am embarrassed," Viktor muttered from his seat in the corner, glued to his phone. His thumbs moved rapidly, clearly texting one of his many love interests—or maybe a combination of them. "Why are we even here every Sunday? It's like a live reenactment of a dysfunctional sitcom."
Nikolai snorted. "Trust me, Anya. He's never solved that thing. The only game he mastered is Russian roulette."
Mikhail didn't even look up. "That's the only game that ever mattered."
Dimitri waved a dismissive hand. "Quiet, all of you. Your voices are disrupting my process."
Nikolai rolled his eyes and slipped away from the main room, heading toward the kitchen. If there was one person who could bring him clarity—or at least sarcasm served with homemade borscht—it was his mother.
He found her where she always was: standing at the island counter, chopping vegetables like she was disarming a bomb. Her long black hair was tied into a sleek bun, and she wore her apron like armor, the kind of woman who ruled her kitchen with the same authority she once used to survive her early days in the bratva.
"Ah," she said as he entered, her voice instantly warm. "If it isn't my eldest baby boy. Did I ever tell you how much I loathed your father when I was pregnant with you?"
Nikolai walked over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Only every time I walk through that door."
"It bears repeating," she said, waving her knife dramatically. "He was insufferable. Smug, bossy, and always trying to seduce me when I was bloated and hormonal. I considered strangling him with a silk tie more than once."
"Let me guess," Nikolai said, lifting a brow. "One of his favorites?"
"Oh, obviously," she said with a devilish grin. "You want to make a man suffer, you start with the things he loves."
"Noted," he muttered.
She stopped chopping and turned to look at him fully. "Now tell me what's wrong. Your face looks like you lost a war you weren't even fighting."
He sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "She's pregnant."
The knife nearly slipped from her fingers. "What?"
"Elara. She's pregnant."
Natalia's eyes widened, her expression shifting between shock and calculation. "Well... shit."
"She found out a few days ago," Nikolai said. "Didn't tell me. She was planning to have an abortion. I stopped her.
Natalia blinked. "Jesus, Nikolai."
"She hates me," he said quietly. "More than ever. She thinks I'm using the baby to trap her. That I only want her now because she's carrying my child."
"And are you?"
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a moment. Then finally, "I don't know. I just… I couldn't let her do it. I saw the tests, I found the appointment. I panicked."
Natalia leaned against the counter, arms folded. Her expression was unreadable for a few long seconds before she said, "You know this is really fucked up, right?"
"I know."
"She's carrying a Volkov heir," she said, her tone now serious, sober. "If your father and Mikhail find out, they'll put her under lock and key. You know how they are. They'll throw tradition, power, and bloodlines at her until she wants to puke. Or kill someone."
"That's why I'm keeping it quiet—for now."
Natalia shook her head slowly. "Nikolai, listen to me. A child is a lifetime commitment. It's not just about DNA or power or legacy. That baby is growing inside her. Every hormone, every pain, every sleepless night—she'll bear all of it. Not you. Not your grandfather. Not me. Her."
"I know," he said softly.
"She's probably terrified," Natalia said. "Not just because of the baby, but because of what it represents. She's afraid she won't have the strength to leave after she gives birth. That she'll fall for the father of her child like I did for your idiot father and wind up stuck in this madness for life."
He looked at her, pained. "You regret staying?"
Natalia gave him a sad smile. "No. Because I got you. And because I saw who your father could be when he held you in his arms. For a moment, I loved him more than I ever had. But I'm not the blueprint, Kolya. Not everyone adapts. Not everyone survives this life. And if you're not careful, you'll break her beyond repair."
He swallowed thickly, fighting the knot in his throat. "I don't know how to let her go, Mama. I love her too much."
"No," she said gently. "What you feel—it's more than love. It's obsession. And obsession destroys. You Volkov men are all the same—intense, relentless, possessive. It's in your blood. But it doesn't have to be your fate."
"What do I do?"
Natalia exhaled. "Start by being better. Kinder. Stop controlling her. Let her breathe. Because when your father and grandfather find out, and believe me they will, they'll come at her like wolves. If you're not on her good side by then, she won't just hate them. She'll hate you most of all."
He was quiet for a moment, then whispered, "Do you think I still have a chance?"
"That depends entirely on her," Natalia said, reaching up to cup his cheek. "But if you want a future with her… then make her want one too. Be the man she fell for. Not the man who locks her behind doors."
"Now, go sit. Look calm. And for the love of everything, try to act like a normal person for the next hour. Your face is screaming 'I locked my pregnant girlfriend in a room'."
He rolled his eyes. "I don't look like that."
"So maybe work on changing that before you screw it up even more."