Shoulders tight, I push off the bed and move toward the door, pausing to steady myself with a hand on the knob. My shirt is smooth beneath my fingers as I brush it down, though the act changes nothing. With slow, practiced care, I step into the corridor, doors lining both sides in quiet shadow.
I reach the elevator at the end. Of course, there’s no light down here at night. Why would there be? We’re just cockroaches to him. But at least I have a roof over my head. A place to keep Diana safe.
The elevator doors open. I step in quickly, eager to see her. I need to talk to her about the plan. When we’re alone, she mostly makes sense. I need to know that she wants to come with us.
I press the button for the entrance floor, just one level above. The door closes, then opens again less than a minute later.
Bright light floods in from the villa’s grand foyer, making me flinch as my eyes adjust after the dark below.
Quickly pulling out my phone, I delete the alert from the screenshot I just sent to myself. I don’t want to think about any of that right now. I need to reach Mom first.
I call for an Uber and walk through the entrance hall—my black boots, jeans, and cheap T-shirt clashing hard with the palace my father built for himself.
The white marble floor glints under the chandelier light, inlaid with gold trim like something out of a tsar’s dream. Massive cream leather sofas with carved dark oak legs line the sunken sitting area, flanked by gold-flaked columns. A samovar sits on the polished tea cart beside the fireplace. Untouched. Just there to look expensive.
A velvet curtain, deep burgundy with heavy gold tassels, hangs tied back beside a wall of floor-length windows. An antique display case filled with hand-painted icons takes up an entire wall. Next to it? A massive oil painting of him—smirking, posed like a royal. I roll my eyes and sneer again at the joke of it all.
The expensive carved wooden tea table comes next—etched with double-headed eagles and florals—my father’s idea of subtlety.
And then I reach the doors.
Imported from Russia. Oversized. Arched. Gilded. Big enough to swallow you whole.
I press one open and step out. A chill wraps around my arms, raising goosebumps beneath the thin fabric of my shirt. My jaw clenches against it, but I welcome the sting. It’s the first thing that’s made me feel real all night, breathing deeply as the early morning air meets my face.
No one needs a door that size.
Unless they want the whole world to know how small they used to be…
“Roran,” my father’s deep growl sends a chill down my spine. I freeze in place, struggling to keep my breath steady.
“What did I do now?” I mutter under my breath, not daring to look back, but it comes out louder than intended.
My body locks up, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for another slap or that iron grip he loves to leave across my arm—just as the last bruises from his office the other day were finally beginning to fade.
But nothing comes.
I open my eyes and turn slightly toward his voice from inside the house. He’s standing just outside the open doors of his special guests’ dining room, posture stiff, one brow raised in that signature look of cold judgment.
Like my instinct to flinch is some kind of character flaw. Like he didn’t spend years beating it into me.
“What are you doing?” His voice is low, annoyed—like I embarrassed him somehow just by existing in the wrong place.
And then I realize—he’s not alone.
My heart thuds harder, a familiar surge of dread rising up my throat. Something worse is coming. I can feel it.
Shiny black leather shoes step out of the dining room, each click against the polished tile sharp as a ticking bomb. My gaze rises slowly. Expensive blue tailored suit. A black branded necktie. Cold, ice-blue eyes.
Ivan.
My breath catches.
Every instinct in me screams to run. But I know better. If I run, I’ll be dead in five minutes—either by him or by my father for ruining the deal.
My hands tremble, but I clench them into fists, grounding myself. I will not show weakness.
I straighten, force the panic down, and shove everything else behind the mask my father trained into me. That cold, detached look I wear for the clients at Konfetki.
