The flight had been long, but not because of the distance.
Elara didn't speak once—not when they ascended into the clouds, not during the hours in the sky, and not when the jet finally touched down on American soil. Her silence wasn't laced with fear. It wasn't even passive. It was deliberate. Like a wall she had built inside herself—high, cold, and unreachable. A wall Nikolai could no longer climb.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She simply stared out the window, her face expressionless, her thoughts unreadable. That unnerved Nikolai more than if she had attacked him mid-flight.
When they returned to the city, Sergei had already arranged for a car. They drove in silence through the buzzing streets of New York, where life moved on without acknowledging the war being waged in the backseat.
Nikolai stole glances at her. She hadn't looked at him since Lisbon. Not once. Her head remained turned to the side, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn't fight anymore—but that didn't mean he had won. No. Her silence was more dangerous than her resistance. He knew this. He just didn't know what it meant yet.
When they reached the penthouse, she didn't wait to be escorted. She walked through the doors as if she were a guest returning from a long trip—quiet, resigned, and completely detached.
The place looked exactly the same. Gleaming floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, cool silence. And yet, it felt different now.
The last time she had been here, she had drugged him, planned an escape, stolen money, and run across the ocean to breathe freely for the first time in months.
And now, here she was again.
Back in the cage.
Nikolai followed behind her, silent for a few moments, letting the heavy click of the door locking echo through the room like a gavel striking judgment.
He watched her pace into the bedroom. Not fast. Not angry. Just moving. Going through the motions like a doll in a play.
He followed.
Inside the bedroom, she paused near the bed. She didn't sit.
"You need to rest," Nikolai said gently, watching her with narrowed eyes.
She folded her arms, leaning against the wall. "I'm not tired," she muttered, eyes fixed on a spot across the room. "And don't tell me what I need."
He exhaled slowly. "I'll go make you something to eat," he said, moving toward the door. "You don't have to eat it now, but just… rest a bit. Please."
"I said I'm not resting," she snapped. "And I sure as hell don't want anything from you. Not your food. Not your orders."
Nikolai turned slowly. "I wasn't asking you, Elara," he said, his voice sharpening like a blade. "I was telling you."
She let out a bitter laugh and stepped away from the wall. "Oh really? What are you going to do—shove it down my throat if I refuse? Hm?"
He stared at her, his expression unreadable.
"You wouldn't dare," she added, lifting her chin. "Because if you do, you'll never sleep in this penthouse again. I'll find a way to end you in your sleep, Nikolai. Even if it's with a spoon."
He took a step forward.
Her heartbeat spiked.
He didn't say anything for a long moment—just stood there, tension coiled in every inch of his body. Then his lips parted, and his voice came out low and dark.
"Don't tempt me, Elara."
Her defiance faltered for half a second, just long enough for her to remember what he was capable of. Not just the violence, but the precision. The coldness. The way he could destroy someone emotionally long before ever raising a hand.
He took another step.
And she backed away.
Just one step.
But it was enough.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth, her voice low and furious. "I'll eat. Not because you told me to. But because I want to. Because I'd rather chew glass than find out whether or not you would shove it down my throat."
Nikolai didn't smile. He didn't even flinch.
He simply nodded once, then left the room, his footsteps slow and even—measured like a man keeping control of a beast inside him.
Elara stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched.
She hated him.
She hated that he was winning again.
She hated that she wasn't sure if he really would have done it—forced her to eat, locked her down, punished her in ways that broke people from the inside out. Because she knew he could. She just didn't know if he would.
And the not knowing was the worst part.
Later, when the scent of garlic and basil crept into the room, she hesitated. Her stomach turned with both nausea and hunger—pregnancy was cruel like that. And she couldn't afford to get sick. Not now. Not when she had to stay sharp.
She stepped into the kitchen, where a bowl of pasta sat steaming on the island beside a plate of toasted bread and a glass of water.
Nikolai wasn't there.
Good.
She ate quietly. Slowly.
Bite after bite. Hating every second. Not because the food was bad—but because she hated that he knew what she liked. Because it tasted too good. Because it made her feel too human. Too home.
When she was done, she rinsed the dishes in the sink and walked back to the bedroom. She didn't say a word. Didn't look around for him.
She just curled up on the edge of the bed, pulled the blanket over her knees, and stared out the window at the city that never slept.
And told herself she would survive this.
Again.
No matter what it cost her.
-------
The world outside the penthouse was wrapped in a blanket of silence. The moon cast a muted glow through the tall windows, painting silver lines across the hardwood floor and the edge of the bed where Elara lay—rigid, awake, and unblinking.
The sheets felt too warm.
Too familiar.
She had tossed and turned for the last hour, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind refusing to follow. Every creak of the building, every gust of wind outside made her heart leap as if Nikolai's presence wasn't already weighing down the air she breathed.
Eventually, her hand drifted to the nightstand. Her phone sat right where she had left it earlier—cold against her palm, a ghost of her recent betrayal. She unlocked the screen and sifted through the flood of notifications.
Spam.
News alerts.
A weather update.
Then, a message from Mr. Lenox, her boss.
Her brows furrowed.
> "Got your message. So sorry about your grandfather. Take all the time you need. We'll manage without you for a few days. Sending love. —L"
Elara blinked at the message. What message? She hadn't texted him… had she?
She checked the timestamp.
It was from the day she boarded the flight. Her heart sank.
It hadn't been her.
It had been him.
Nikolai had used her phone. While she was in the air, he had already begun cleaning up the trail she left behind. Her boss… fooled by a fabricated excuse. A dead grandfather she didn't have. And worst of all, her own name attached to it.
She sighed.
A part of her hated him for it—the deception, the way he handled her life like a puzzle he could rearrange at will.
But another part—one she didn't want to acknowledge—was… relieved.
It meant Mr. Lenox wasn't worried. It meant she hadn't been fired. That when she found her way through this storm, she might still have a job, a sense of purpose waiting.
She scrolled further and found another message, this one from her mother, sent just two hours ago.
> "We got a cat!! She's a little orange menace, and we named her Elira (like you but not you). You dad wanted to call her Ginger Snap. Anyway, we miss you. Hope you're safe. Love you."
Elara laughed softly. It wasn't a loud sound. It was quiet and real, the kind that surprised her.
Elira.
Her mother had named a cat after her. Of course she did.
She sat up, the blanket slipping from her legs, and leaned her head back against the headboard.
This was the part that stung. Not the penthouse. Not Nikolai.
The guilt.
The knowing that, in her quest for freedom, she had hurt the very people who had never caged her to begin with. Mr. Lenox. Her parents. Maya.
How do I keep fighting for freedom, she thought bitterly, without becoming the villain in my own story?
The door creaked open.
She didn't need to look.
She felt him.
Nikolai stepped into the bedroom, tall and silent like a shadow in motion. His black shirt was partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled like he, too, had spent hours battling sleep.
"You're still awake," he said softly, walking toward his side of the bed.
Elara didn't turn her head. She simply kept staring at her screen.
"Hard to sleep when you've been kidnapped across continents," she muttered. Her voice wasn't sharp—just tired. Dull around the edges.
He lowered himself onto the bed with a sigh, propping one elbow on his knee, his eyes scanning her face.
"You replied to my boss's message," she said flatly, finally turning to look at him.
"I did it for you," he replied. "To buy you time. So no one would worry. So no one would look."
"And now I'm here," she said bitterly. "So I guess it worked."
He didn't answer right away. He reached over and took a small bottle of water from the nightstand, unscrewed the cap, and drank. Then:
"I know how much you love being an interior designer," he said. "I wouldn't take that from you."
Elara looked at him skeptically. "You wouldn't?"
"No," he said, voice firm. "But I will be watching you. Every step. Every client. Every coffee run. So don't think of running again."
She raised a brow, her lips curling with sarcasm.
"Yes, sir," she said mockingly, giving him a mock salute. "Would you like me to get your slippers too, or are we skipping the full 1950s husband-fantasy tonight?"
Nikolai's jaw ticked.
But he didn't lash out. He didn't move.
He just stared at her for a long, unreadable moment.
"You still think I'm the enemy," he said at last.
"I don't think," she replied, her tone razor-sharp. "I know."
Silence crackled between them. It wasn't the cold, sharp silence from earlier. This one was heavier. More personal.
"I lied to protect you," he said eventually, voice low.
"You lie to control me," she snapped.
They sat in that tension, air thick like a storm that refused to break.
Eventually, Nikolai leaned back, pulling off his jacket and tossing it over the chair by the window.
"You can believe what you want," he muttered. "But you're here. And you're safe. And that's all that matters."
"Safe," she echoed with a bitter laugh. "From what? The rest of the world? Or from you?"
Nikolai didn't answer.
He simply got into bed, turned off the lamp on his side, and laid back.
But she didn't move. She stayed upright, arms folded, the light from her phone illuminating her face as she stared down at the screen—at the message from her mother.
At the word Elira.
At the warmth of a home that had never tried to trap her.
And she wondered… just how far she'd fallen.
And how far she'd still need to go to get back to herself.