The silence in the penthouse was heavy. Oppressive. It felt like a cage made of glass and gold—beautiful from the outside, but suffocating within. Elara stood in the middle of Nikolai's bedroom, the very room he had locked her in for nearly two days now. The sheets on the bed were untouched. She hadn't dared to sleep in them again after their argument. She had taken the corner of the mattress, curled into herself like a prisoner waiting for execution.
But she wasn't going to wait anymore.
Elara's eyes scanned the room—again. She had already done this hours ago, desperate to find something, anything. A spare key, a hidden phone, a weapon. But Nikolai was too careful, too meticulous. He wouldn't have left anything like that lying around. His room was cold, calculated. Everything was exactly where it should be—nothing more, nothing less. His drawers held only expensive watches, cufflinks, cologne, and neatly folded ties. No clue. No salvation.
Frustrated, she moved into his en suite bathroom. The lights buzzed softly as they flickered on, revealing a space as pristine and sterile as the rest of his life. But this time, she didn't waste time admiring the polished marble countertops or the chrome fixtures. She opened the cabinet behind the mirror and began inspecting the contents.
There were bottles—dozens of them. Painkillers. Antibiotics. Vitamins. Some unlabelled. Others in Cyrillic. It was like a mini pharmacy. You'd think he was preparing for a nuclear fallout or a three-month siege.
Her fingers paused on one particular bottle. She reached for it, her breath catching in her throat.
Sleeping pills.
She read the label, the name of the medication in both English and Russian, and her heart began to beat faster. The dosage was strong—strong enough to make someone with a high tolerance pass out for a few hours. Strong enough to make Nikolai sleep deeply. Unbothered. Vulnerable.
Her hand tightened around the bottle.
This was it. This was her chance.
She didn't need to overpower him. She just needed time. Time to escape. Time to disappear.
Quickly, she stuffed the bottle into the pocket of her hoodie and moved back into the bedroom. She paced, mind racing. The plan began to form like pieces of a puzzle snapping into place.
Dinner.
She would make him dinner. Something comforting. Warm. Something that would mask the bitterness of crushed pills. Pasta, maybe. A meat dish. Wine—definitely wine. She knew he wouldn't resist it, not if she looked soft and remorseful and wrapped it all up in a peaceful smile.
And that was the key. She would act. She would become the woman he wanted her to be—for just one night. Sweet. Forgiving. Understanding. She would stroke his ego and tell him she understood. That she wanted peace. That she didn't want to fight anymore. She would lie to his face, and he would believe her, because love—especially obsessive, blinding love—makes even the sharpest men stupid.
Once he ate, once the pills worked their way through his blood, once he was out cold—she would leave. She'd take the cash from the locked drawer in his study. She had seen him stash it more than once, assuming she hadn't been paying attention. But she had. She always had.
She would take her ID, her card, and vanish. She'd withdraw money from her account in pieces—only cash, so she couldn't be tracked. No online purchases. No GPS. No calls. No contact.
She'd be a ghost by morning.
Elara moved to the kitchen like a woman with a mission, her fingers still trembling but her resolve steel-strong. She pulled out ingredients from the fridge—chicken, herbs, vegetables, pasta. She set a pot of water to boil and prepped the sauce with robotic precision. She had no appetite, but the food had to be good enough to mask the bitter taste of crushed pills.
She opened the bottle of sleeping pills and carefully counted them into her palm. Four. Five. Six.
She didn't know the exact dosage needed to knock out a man of Nikolai's size, but she figured six crushed into his plate, and two more stirred into his glass of red wine would be enough to send him into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Hopefully long enough to give her a head start.
She found a mortar and pestle in one of the lower cabinets and ground the pills into fine powder. The bitterness stung her nose, but she didn't flinch. She stirred the powder into the sauce on the stove, making sure it dissolved completely. Then, she opened the wine bottle, poured it into a decanter, and added the rest of the powder there. She gave it a slow, swirling stir.
It was almost poetic. Poisoning him with love.
When the table was set, the penthouse took on a warm glow under the soft lighting. The air smelled like garlic and rosemary. The decanter gleamed like a crimson jewel at the center of the table. Everything was perfect. Domestic. Inviting.
She cleaned up quickly, hiding any evidence of what she had done. The pill bottle was flushed down the toilet. The packaging shredded and burned in the sink.
Then, she stood in front of the mirror and practiced her smile.
Soft. Sad. Forgiving.
Like someone who had decided to stop fighting and just… give in.
Because that's what he needed to see.
She would tell him she was tired of the coldness between them. That she was ready to move forward. That the baby deserved peace, and maybe they could find some too. He'd believe her. He wanted to believe her.
All she had to do now was wait.
And when the door finally opened and she heard the soft thud of his shoes on the marble floor, she turned, calmly, with a sweet smile on her lips and a lie already blooming on her tongue.
Tonight, he would fall for it.
And tomorrow—she would be gone.
Nikolai walked into the penthouse expecting tension, distance, maybe another round of cold stares and silence, but what he saw the moment he stepped inside stopped him in his tracks.
There, standing near the dining table under the soft golden light, was Elara.
Not curled up on the couch avoiding his presence.
Not hidden away in his bedroom behind a door he had locked with guilt clenched in his chest.
She was standing in front of a perfectly set table—white linen, wine glasses, plates, warm food steaming gently from elegant ceramic bowls. Her hair was brushed back neatly, and she wore a soft cream sweater with leggings, nothing extravagant, but enough to look… warm. Gentle. Familiar. Her expression was soft, tentative.
"Elara?" he said, as if his brain hadn't caught up to his vision.
She turned to face him fully, her lips curving into a gentle smile, the kind she hadn't offered him in weeks.
"Nik," she said softly, using his nickname like it didn't still taste like ash on her tongue. She had practiced this scene in her head again and again, like a performance she needed to perfect. Tonight, her life—her freedom—depended on it.
He blinked. "What… is this?"
"I made dinner," she said, her voice light and even.
"You made dinner?" he repeated, slowly, as though trying to decode her like a puzzle. The words sounded more like a question to himself than to her. Suspicion flickered behind his eyes, but it was dimmed by confusion and cautious hope.
"Yes," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Come on. Sit. We can talk while we eat."
Still hesitant, Nikolai moved forward like someone walking into a trap they wanted to believe wasn't there. He pulled out a chair and sat down, never taking his eyes off her.
She dished the food for him—tender roasted chicken, mashed potatoes seasoned with herbs, a cream sauce she knew he liked. She poured the wine with a steady hand, the deep red liquid swirling gracefully in the glass. The pills had already dissolved, completely undetectable.
He watched her, guarded but visibly trying to let himself hope. She took her seat across from him, picked up her fork, and began eating like everything was fine. It took him another few seconds before he followed.
The silence hung between them for a beat before she broke it.
"I've been thinking," she said, pushing her food around on her plate. "About everything."
He glanced up at her, chewing slowly. "Yeah?"
She nodded. "I wasn't fair. About the baby. About making that decision without you."
His fork froze mid-air.
She looked up at him, forcing sincerity into her eyes. "It's not just mine. It's ours. I didn't… I didn't want to accept that because I was scared. I still am. But I also realized that I don't want to fight anymore."
"Elara…" he began, but she held up a hand, stopping him.
"Let me finish, please."
He nodded, silently.
"I don't know how we got here. I don't know when I started hating you. Or when I started fearing what we have. But I don't want to keep living in fear. I want peace. And maybe… maybe we could find that again. Maybe we could start over. For the baby. For us."
The lie burned her throat. Every word felt like poison, like cutting pieces from her soul and laying them on a plate for him to eat. But she said it all, with the softness and sincerity of someone surrendering.
His face changed as she spoke—first shock, then confusion, then something achingly tender. His eyes misted just a little, his shoulders relaxed.
"You really mean that?" he asked, voice hoarse.
She nodded. "I do."
He reached across the table and took her hand. She didn't pull away.
Dinner continued quietly. He talked more than she did, telling her about how his mother had guessed something was off and about how he dreaded his grandfather and father finding out. She nodded, said the right things, offered sympathy and smiles at the appropriate moments. It was like playing a character she no longer recognized, but she played it flawlessly.
After dinner, he offered to clean up.
"I'll do the dishes," he said, standing and stacking plates.
"Okay," she said with a smile. "I'll go change into something more comfortable."
She slipped into his room, checked her bag to make sure everything was in place—her ID, some money she'd managed to steal earlier from his study, a change of clothes. She breathed out shakily. One hour. Maybe less.
When he returned, she was already curled under the sheets.
"Let's go to bed early tonight," she said, patting the space beside her.
He raised a brow. "That's a first."
She chuckled softly. "I have work tomorrow. And I just… want to hold you tonight. Is that okay?"
His gaze softened, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "More than okay."
He changed into his pajamas quickly and joined her in bed. She scooted closer, nestled into his chest, her fingers brushing over his forearm before she gently guided his hand to her belly.
"She'll be lucky to have you," she whispered, voice trembling slightly. "I can already see you as a father."
Nikolai's breath caught. His heart thudded so loudly she could feel it beneath his ribs. "You think so?"
She nodded slowly, keeping her face buried in his chest to hide the anguish in her expression. "Yeah."
He kissed the top of her head and pulled her tighter. "You're everything I ever wanted," he murmured. "And now… we'll be a family."
They lay like that for a while, talking softly. She fed him dreams and hopes laced with practiced lies, telling him about baby names she'd once liked, about how she imagined he'd spoil their child rotten. She watched his face light up, like a little boy gifted the stars.
Then, slowly, inevitably, the pills began to work.
His speech slurred a little. He blinked more often, yawned, and rubbed his eyes.
"Strange… I feel… really sleepy tonight," he mumbled.
"Then close your eyes," she said, stroking his hair. "Sleep, Nik. I'll be right here when you wake up."
His lips brushed her forehead. "Promise?"
She nodded. "Promise."
Within minutes, his breath evened out. His chest rose and fell in slow, deep patterns. His face relaxed into the peace only deep sleep could bring.
Elara waited five more minutes. Then she slowly, carefully poked his cheek.
"Nikolai," she whispered.
Nothing.
She poked again, a little firmer this time.
Still nothing.
She called his name softly.
No response. He was out cold.
She sat up, her heart thundering in her chest.
A slow smile spread across her face.
Perfect.