Elara sat on the bed, nervously twirling a loose thread in the comforter, her eyes flicking to the door every few seconds. The sun had dipped low, casting a soft golden hue across the bedroom. Her chest felt tight with anticipation and nerves. The silence was beginning to feel oppressive, wrapping around her like a weighted blanket. Just as she was about to stand and pace, the door creaked open.
Nikolai stepped in, looking worn out, shadows sitting heavily beneath his green eyes. He carried the scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne, the one she had secretly sprayed on herself that morning, because somehow, absurdly, it comforted her.
He shrugged off his jacket and placed it on the armchair. Then, without a word, he began unbuttoning his shirt, his expression unreadable. He didn't glance in her direction. This had become their new normal—silent, cautious, distant.
Elara swallowed and finally broke the silence.
"Nik," she said softly.
He stilled, pausing mid-button. "Yeah?"
She shifted on the bed, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry."
That got his attention. He turned to face her now, brows raised, curious. "What are you sorry for?"
"For going through your diary," she said, the words spilling out in a rush. "I know it was wrong. That was something sacred. Private. I had no right. But I didn't do it out of malice—I was just... curious. And after I started reading, I couldn't stop. I didn't expect to find something so... painful. And I understand now why you didn't want me to know. But this silence between us... this awkwardness... it's suffocating. We sleep on the same bed but act like strangers. And yes, things between us are far from perfect—I haven't forgiven you for stopping me from getting an abortion, for locking me up like some criminal. That was supposed to be my decision. But despite all that... we can't keep going like this."
Her voice cracked at the end, tears pooling in her eyes. Damn these hormones.
Nikolai sighed, a long and quiet exhale, and then walked over to the bed. He sat down beside her, close but not quite touching.
"I'm not mad at you," he said after a beat.
She blinked. "Then why have you been so distant?"
His gaze dropped to the floor. "Because you know now. You read about a part of me I've spent years trying to bury. A part of me that still gives me nightmares. A part that makes me uncomfortable around women with red hair and green eyes because that's what she looked like. And her friend... she had pink hair. I don't like pastel pink anymore. I used to, but not after that."
His voice was low and raw.
"So, no. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at the fact that you saw that side of me. The ugly, broken, violated part. The part I despise. That still makes me flinch when someone touches me unexpectedly. That still haunts me when I close my eyes."
Elara's throat burned as she listened, the pain in his voice piercing her chest.
"Maybe I would have opened up about it one day. Maybe I wouldn't have," he continued. "I don't know. I just... didn't expect you to know. Not like that."
She reached for his hand. He hesitated but let her take it.
"I don't think that part of you is ugly," she whispered. "It's hurt. It's human. And I'm sorry you had to endure it. You didn't deserve that."
He nodded, squeezing her fingers gently.
The room remained quiet for a while, but not the stifling kind of quiet. It was softer now, heavy but filled with understanding.
Finally, Elara pulled her phone from the nightstand and opened her messages.
"What are you doing?" Nikolai asked.
She then showed him the text she sent to her dad.
Nikolai raised a brow. "You're calling me your boyfriend now?"
She rolled her eyes. "For appearances. They don't know about the... complications. And I want to keep it that way."
"So, what exactly does this meeting entail?"
She turned to him, folding her legs beneath her. "You need to act... normal."
"Normal?"
"Yes. Sweet, respectful, good career, zero body count, preferably loves puppies and long walks in the park kind of normal."
He snorted. "That might be hard."
"Nikolai, I'm serious. My dad is overprotective. He's already suspicious of anyone who looks like he can break ribs for fun. So you need to dress like a regular guy. No tailored suits. No leather jackets that scream mob boss. And absolutely no hidden weapons."
He looked offended. "I always carry a weapon."
"Not to my parents' house, you won't."
"Fine," he grumbled. "What about the car?"
"I was getting to that. No million-dollar cars. Pick something simple. Maybe a black SUV or something that says 'I'm responsible, not criminally rich from laundering money through a chain of luxury clubs.'"
He groaned. "This is going to be painful."
"Just smile, pretend you love Shakespeare and volunteer at shelters on weekends."
He narrowed his eyes. "You're enjoying this."
"A little," she admitted with a grin. "But seriously, this means a lot. I haven't seen them in months, and I want this to go well. I don't want them to worry."
He nodded. "Okay. I'll do it. I'll be your sweet, innocent, criminally underwhelming boyfriend."
She laughed. "Perfect."
They sat together on the bed for a while longer, the tension finally broken. And for the first time in weeks, it felt like the ice between them was beginning to thaw.
-------------
It was Friday morning, and the weather outside was unusually calm for late spring. Sunlight filtered lazily through the massive glass windows of the Volkov mansion, warming the floorboards beneath Elara's bare feet as she stepped into the expansive walk-in closet attached to Nikolai's room. She looked around the space that could rival a boutique showroom. Every shelf was organized by designer, color, and function. Rows of pressed suits in various dark shades lined one side, each one more intimidating than the last. She trailed her fingers along the crisp fabric, her expression unimpressed.
"Why does everything in here scream 'I kill people for a living and charge extra for it?'" she muttered.
Nikolai, lounging on the armchair near the doorway with a mug of coffee in one hand, gave a low chuckle. "Because most of these suits were worn to meetings where someone didn't leave the room breathing."
She shot him a look. "Not funny."
He held up his hands. "Sorry. Noted."
Elara resumed combing through his closet. Even the plainest t-shirts were some Italian luxury brand with a name she couldn't pronounce and a price tag that could pay her college tuition twice over. The sweatpants? Tailored. The shoes? Custom-made leather. She didn't even bother touching those. One glance told her they were worth more than her entire wardrobe.
She turned to him, arms crossed. "Okay. Nothing here says 'normal human being who doesn't have a sniper on speed dial.'"
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "What do you want me to look like, Elara? An accountant from Ohio?"
"Yes. Exactly!" she exclaimed. "Your identity is you're Nikolai Volkov who works at... some company. You guys do have legal companies, right?"
He sipped his coffee. "On the outside, very legal. A few real estate firms, one big law firm, a tech company or two, a couple of nightclubs, and a few banks. We like to diversify. Oh, and we're in the early stages of building a hospital after we finish our flagship hotel downtown."
Elara groaned. "Of course you are. How philanthropic of you—using blood money to save lives."
He smirked. "Balance, darling. Karma loves a neat scorecard."
She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Anyway, pick one. Pick a profession that sounds normal, nothing too flashy. Something a guy with a two-bedroom house, a modest kitchen, and a Honda Civic would have."
He leaned his head back against the chair and considered. "Fine. I'm Nikolai Volkov, mid-level operations manager at one of our tech subsidiaries. Work in data analysis or supply chain or some boring field."
"Perfect," Elara said, hands on her hips. "Now we need to dress you like a man who works 9 to 5 and has a labrador named Biscuit."
Nikolai laughed. "You want me to name my imaginary dog Biscuit?"
"It adds relatability. Parents love that."
He stood, finally taking this seriously. "Alright. Let's go shopping. I'll let you pick the clothes if I get to pick lunch."
"Deal."
---
The boutique they went to wasn't one of Nikolai's usual high-end haunts. Elara had specifically Googled "affordable men's fashion" and found a place that sold high-quality but budget-friendly clothes downtown. When they walked in, the clerk's eyes lit up at Nikolai's presence—he still looked like royalty despite wearing casual slacks and a Henley.
"Stick to jeans. Soft colors. Plaid shirts. Maybe a hoodie that doesn't cost four digits," Elara instructed as she flipped through hangers.
Nikolai obediently browsed a rack of jeans, but made a face. "These feel like sandpaper."
"That's because you're used to Egyptian cotton woven by the hands of cherubs. Suck it up."
She eventually handed him a stack of clothes—dark denim, a grey crewneck sweater, a simple flannel shirt, a navy windbreaker, and plain white sneakers. He disappeared into the fitting room and emerged a few minutes later.
Elara tilted her head. "You look... oddly wholesome."
He looked down at himself. "I feel like I'm about to mow the lawn and complain about HOA rules."
"Perfect," she grinned. "My dad's going to love you."
After paying for the clothes (on Elara's insistence they used a normal debit card and not his Bratva-black credit card), they moved on to phase two: the car.
---
Elara refused to let him drive anything from his existing fleet. The Bugatti? Too flashy. The vintage black Mustang? Too mafia. The matte-black Mercedes AMG G-Wagon? Don't even mention it.
"You need a car that says, 'I'm financially responsible and I worry about my car insurance premiums,' not, 'I fund wars in oil-rich countries for fun,'" she told him.
They ended up at a pre-owned car dealership, much to Nikolai's visible horror. Rows of modest sedans, crossovers, and family-friendly SUVs greeted them. A salesman in khakis and an enthusiastic smile approached them.
"Looking for something practical today?"
Elara jumped in. "Yes. A good, reliable car. Safe. Affordable. Good on gas."
Nikolai stared at a beige Toyota Camry like it might bite him.
"This one's a 2017 model," the salesman said. "One previous owner. Great condition."
"It's beige," Nikolai muttered.
"Exactly. No one notices beige. It's the Switzerland of car colors," Elara whispered back.
After an hour and more soul-crushing decisions, they drove back in Nikolai's new (to him) car. A modest, humble Camry that screamed "average guy with great manners."
As they drove, Elara leaned back in the passenger seat, arms folded smugly.
"Now you just need to remember your cover story. You went to community college, majored in IT management, currently work in data coordination, love dogs, help your elderly neighbor with groceries, and enjoy hiking on weekends."
He shot her a sideways look. "I feel like I'm in a witness protection program."
"You are. From my father."
He smirked. "This feels unnecessarily elaborate."
"You dragged me from Lisbon, Nik. The least you can do is not make my dad suspicious enough to call the cops on you."
He exhaled. "Fine. I'll play nice. But I'm not naming the imaginary dog Biscuit."
"How about Buttons?"
He rolled his eyes. "You're insufferable."
"And you love it."
He didn't reply, but the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Tomorrow, he'd have to lie his way through an entire afternoon with Elara's family. And somehow, pretending to be a normal guy with a normal job and a normal car felt more terrifying than any Bratva meeting he'd ever walked into. But for her—he'd do it.