Nikolai walked into the bedroom, his eyes narrowing the moment they landed on the small velvet bag that had been left on the edge of the bed. He crossed the room silently, picked it up, and pulled out the glinting object within.
"A golden pacifier, really?" he asked, holding the gleaming piece between his fingers as he turned to face Elara.
Elara, lounging comfortably on their bed, kicked off her shoes and shrugged, utterly unbothered. "I got it because I was sure our baby would like it."
Nikolai arched a brow, watching the ridiculous pacifier sparkle under the chandelier light. "Your pregnancy isn't even showing yet. And you could've gotten a different expensive pacifier, not one that looks like it was found in an auction house."
"I saw it. I liked it. That's what matters more," she said simply, folding one leg over the other.
He sighed, the sound full of resigned amusement. Deep down, he knew spending an entire day with Natalia would lead to this. His mother had corrupted many women before, but Elara? She might be her most dangerous protégé yet.
But watching her smirk with such satisfaction, knowing she'd used the Bratva's money to indulge herself and, possibly, to tease him—it was oddly charming. And dangerous. Very dangerous. Because he couldn't bring himself to be angry about it.
"Anyway," she said, as if sensing his thoughts, "your mom told me you're good at braiding hair. And applying makeup."
He turned toward her, clearly caught off guard. "I guess so, yeah."
Elara patted the bed beside her. "Can you braid my hair?"
Nikolai looked hesitant. "Now?"
"Yep. I want to see how well you can braid."
He shrugged, tossing the pacifier back into the bag and walking over. "Okay then. I guess."
She sat with her back to him and handed him a brush from the nightstand. Her long dark hair tumbled freely down her back, soft and clean from the spa's earlier treatments. He took the brush, fingers surprisingly gentle as he started at the ends and worked his way up.
"So," she said, teasing. "When exactly did you learn to braid hair?"
"When I was ten," he replied. "Anya was three. Mom was exhausted one day, and Anya wouldn't stop crying. I figured braiding her hair might help calm her down. And it did. Then I just... kept doing it."
"That's surprisingly sweet of you."
"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my image."
She laughed quietly, enjoying the way his fingers worked through her hair, smooth and skilled. He separated the strands slowly and deliberately, twisting them into a tight, neat braid with an ease that surprised even her.
The room fell into a comfortable silence for a few moments. The only sound was the gentle swish of hair being handled and the occasional creak of the bed as they shifted. She closed her eyes, her body relaxing under his touch, completely unaware of how fast her heart was starting to beat.
Then, just as he finished tying off the end of her braid, he spoke. Quietly. Calmly. But the weight of his words landed like a stone in her stomach.
"You read my diary."
Her body froze.
Elara's breath hitched, and she slowly turned her head toward him, eyes wide.
"Uhm..."
Nikolai didn't look angry. Just... still. Too still. Like the calm before a very violent storm.
"I found it under the pillow," he said, voice low but steady. "I had placed it between my book collection on the top shelf. You probably found it by accident. But you read it."
She couldn't speak. Her throat tightened, her fingers curled into her lap. She didn't know what to say.
"Is that why you've been looking at me with... pity?" he asked, and this time his voice cracked just slightly.
Elara lowered her gaze, her lips parting, but no sound came out.
He stood from the bed, walking toward the bookshelf. He stared at it for a moment, as if trying to rearrange his thoughts like the spines of the novels he had organized there.
"It's okay," he said finally, turning back toward her. "What happened to me is in the past now. But please... don't open my diaries or anything like that in the future."
She stood too, slowly, trying to catch his gaze. "I didn't mean to invade your privacy. I swear, Nikolai. I just... I found it and I was curious. And then I couldn't stop."
He met her eyes. Something flickered there—pain, vulnerability, exhaustion—but it disappeared just as quickly.
"You saw something I never told anyone. Not even my father. Not even my mother. And now... you know."
Elara's voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."
He nodded once. "I believe you. Just don't do it again."
He turned away, walking to the balcony door, opening it, letting the night air in.
She watched him for a moment, unsure of what to do. Her heart felt like it had been placed in a vice grip. But she knew now wasn't the time to push. He'd spoken, and he needed space.
But she made a silent promise to herself.
She would never look at him the same way again—not with pity, but with understanding. And if he ever chose to tell her the story himself, she would listen with her heart wide open.
For now, she walked over to the bed, sat down again, and ran her fingers over the soft edge of the braid he had made.
Even in all his brokenness, Nikolai still found ways to be gentle.
And that mattered more than any diamond-studded pacifier ever could.
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Elara sat cross-legged on a large, embroidered floor pillow in the greenhouse, surrounded by lush greens and gentle sunlight streaming through the glass panes. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and earthy soil, a tranquil setting that contrasted wildly with the chaos whirling in her mind. Her fingers hovered over her phone's keyboard, typing out a message for what felt like the hundredth time. Then she erased it.
Typed. Erased. Typed again. Deleted.
She groaned under her breath and tilted her head back against the iron frame of the glass wall, feeling the gentle warmth of the late afternoon sun brushing her face. Why was this so hard?
She stared down at the phone screen and typed again:
ELARA: Hi Dad. I have a boyfriend and I would like you guys to meet him this week if possible.
She read it three times, then hit backspace until the message vanished completely. It sounded too stiff, too formal, and definitely too dishonest. Her dad would know something was off. It wasn't like her to be this... vague.
She placed her phone down and brought her knees up, resting her chin on them. Her hand slid over her still-flat belly, the motion more instinctual than conscious. She was eight weeks along. Two months into a pregnancy she hadn't planned. Two months into a relationship that even now was hanging in that strange limbo between love and hate.
It wasn't that the pregnancy had been hard on her body—on the contrary, she had lucked out. No morning sickness, no extreme fatigue. But her mood swings were a whole different story. Last week, she cried over a bird. A bird. The poor thing had fallen from a branch while learning to fly, and she had bawled her eyes out for twenty minutes before Sergei, in all his poker-faced awkwardness, brought her a blanket and sat silently until she calmed down.
And then there was the matter of Nikolai's cologne.
God, it was addictive.
She had sprayed it on herself this morning, discreetly, after he had gone out to handle Bratva business. The scent still lingered on her shirt—deep wood, something smoky, something dark and warm. It made her feel strangely safe, even though she'd once accused the man who wore it of being a cold-hearted brute.
She picked up her phone again, her fingers trembling slightly with nerves.
This wasn't just about introducing a boyfriend. This was about introducing the boyfriend. The father of her child. The man who had, not long ago, dragged her from Lisbon against her will, carried her like a sack of potatoes, and locked her into a mansion filled with Bratva royalty. Who kept a knife under his pillow and a gun somewhere she hadn't figured out yet. Who had lived through horrors no teenager should ever face and had survived with scars too deep to see.
She was supposed to tell her parents all of that?
Or lie?
She sighed again, pressing her phone to her forehead. "Okay. Okay. Let's just keep it light. Focus on the essentials."
She started typing again.
ELARA: Hey Dad. Hope you and Mom are doing okay. I've been meaning to call, but things have been...a little hectic. I have someone in my life now—his name is Nikolai. He's important to me, and I'd really like for you both to meet him. How about dinner this weekend? Just something simple. I'll come by with him.
She paused, reading it over. It was short, straightforward, and honest... well, mostly. She hadn't mentioned the Bratva. Or the pregnancy. Or the emotional minefield she was walking through. But that could wait. First things first—introduce Nikolai.
She hovered her thumb over the send button for a few seconds, her stomach twisting with anxiety.
What if they hate him? What if he comes off too cold, too controlled? What if they see through everything and realize she's hiding more than just a boyfriend?
But then again... maybe it was time.
With a deep breath, she pressed send.
Message delivered.
Elara exhaled and dropped her phone beside her. She leaned back and looked up at the glass ceiling, watching a few birds fluttering across the sky. Her heart was still racing, but she felt lighter somehow. The first step was done.
She stayed in the greenhouse for a while longer, letting the silence wrap around her like a warm blanket. Her thoughts drifted to Nikolai—not the Bratva heir or the man who gave ruthless orders without blinking, but the boy in the diary. The one who had been failed by every adult in his life. Who had endured pain no child should. Who still bore it quietly, privately, behind his unreadable eyes.
Since that day in his room, things had changed between them. Not outwardly—he was still guarded, still serious. She still argued with him. But there was a thread between them now, invisible but undeniable. She saw the way he sometimes looked at her, the way his hand hovered near her back when they walked side by side, as if he wanted to touch her but wasn't sure if he was allowed.
And then there were the quiet things. The small gestures.
Like the hot chocolate he brought her at night without asking. Or the way he left little notes when he had to leave early in the morning, always scribbled on scraps of paper: "Don't forget to eat." "Wear something warm." "Misha likes to sunbathe in the south window. He won't bite. Probably."
She smiled at the memory.
Despite everything—despite how wrong it had started—there was something there. Something she couldn't ignore.
Her phone buzzed. She reached for it, her pulse quickening.
DAD: Hi sweetheart. We'd love to meet him. How about Saturday night? I'll fire up the grill. Just like old times.
Elara's throat tightened. She hadn't realized how much she missed them—her father's awful dad jokes, her mom's constant need to feed everyone who entered the house.
Saturday night it is, she typed back.
Now all she had to do was tell Nikolai.
She chuckled under her breath. That's going to be fun.
She stood and stretched, the greenhouse quiet around her, the sunlight now starting to shift into gold. Her belly hadn't changed much yet, but she placed a hand there anyway, protective and soft.
"Okay, little one," she whispered. "Let's hope grandpa doesn't notice that pacifier before dinner is over."
She turned toward the house, the faint sound of a piano drifting from somewhere upstairs. Maybe Anya again. That girl had more hobbies than hours in the day.
As she walked, her thoughts ran ahead of her—imagining the dinner, the awkward introductions, the way Nikolai would probably show up in something ridiculously formal, only to be greeted by her dad in socks and flip-flops.
She smiled.
It was going to be weird. But it was going to happen.
And maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something real.