You know when everything in your life is falling apart, but a stubborn part of your brain keeps whispering that maybe it’s not as bad as it seems? That a solution is coming, that things will magically work out? And then reality finally punches you in the chest and you realize that, no, this is exactly as bad as it looks. There is no escape. You just have to live with it.
That’s where I am right now.
All day I’ve been trapped in my own head, replaying Artyom’s grim face, the finality in his voice when he said there was no loophole. I’m really going to marry Maxim Orlov.
As I said at breakfast, in our world, divorce isn’t an option. You stay married until one of you dies. Just like my mother did with my father, trapped, and slowly fading away. That will be myfuture too. Tied to this man for the rest of my life… or at least until he dies. If I’m lucky.
The moment that thought crosses my mind, Maxim dying, a sharp, unexpected pang hits me right in the center of my chest. A strange twist of sadness I don’t understand and don’t want to examine. I shove the feeling away angrily.
It’s past lunch now. I’ve been hiding in this room since breakfast, but I can’t stay locked away forever. When I try the door handle, it opens easily. He actually listened. For once.
I step out into the hallway. The house is massive. Three stories of cold, modern luxury wrapped in silence so thick it feels suffocating. Everything is in the same style as my room. Dark marble floors stretch endlessly, reflecting the light from enormous chandeliers. The walls are a mix of charcoal and deep charcoal-gray stone, broken up by expensive abstract art and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook perfectly manicured grounds. Everything is expensive, and lifeless.
I wander downstairs, my bare feet quiet on the cold marble. There’s an indoor gym on the lower level, all black equipment, mirrored walls, and heavy weights. Outside, through the glass doors, I can see a huge infinity pool shimmering under the afternoon sun, surrounded by dark lounge chairs and manicured hedges. The entire estate feels like a fortress built for a king.
I keep walking until I notice a staircase leading further down, almost hidden behind a corner. Curiosity gets the better of me. I descend quietly.
It’s dark, only a single dim wall light flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The farther I move down, the colder the air becomes, heavy with the scent of damp concrete and something metallic beneath it.
The walls close in tightly around it, swallowing sound. I descend carefully and that’s when I hear it.
Low groans of pain. The wet sound of flesh being struck.
My stomach tightens. I’ve heard that sound one too many times to not be familiar with it. But I don’t stop. I’ve seen this before. Growing up with Vladimir Morozov, violence was a regular thing. I’ve watched my father torture men without blinking. I’m not new to blood or screams.
The corridor at the bottom is narrow, suffocating. A single overhead bulb buzzes faintly, barely illuminating the dark concrete walls. Heavy metal doors line one side like prison cells.
When I reach the bottom and peer through the half-open door, the sight still hits me hard.
Maxim stands in the center of what looks like a soundproofed basement room, sleeves rolled up, shirt bloody. A man is tied to a metal chair in front of him, face swollen and dripping red. Maxim’s expression is ice-cold as he lands another brutal punch.
He turns his head and our eyes lock. For one long, heavy second, the world narrows to just us. His dark gaze burns into mine,intense, and dangerous. My breath catches. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. He doesn’t look guilty that I just walked in on him torturing a man. He just stares, chest rising and falling steadily.
Even as he turns back to the man in the chair and lands him another vicious punch, I hold his gaze. His eyes lock on mine again, dark and challenging, like he’s daring me to keep watching. Like he wants me to see exactly who he is.
I finally spin around and walk away, legs shaking so badly I have to brace one hand against the wall. My whole body feels unsteady. Maxim Orlov isn’t different from my father. He might be even worse, beating someone half to death without breaking eye contact with me.
I keep moving through the house on trembling legs, trying to outrun the image burned into my mind. I need air. I need to understand the man I’m supposed to marry in two weeks.
I walk around opening random doors. A storage room. A guest room. A bathroom. Then, a heavy wooden door catches my attention at the end of a hallway. I try the handle. It opens. I step inside and realize immediately that this is Maxim’s office.
The room is huge. It is more traditional, less minimal than the rest of the house. Dark wood panels line the walls, and a massive black desk dominates the center. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves cover one entire wall filled with books. I walk over, glancing at the books. Strategy, military history, philosophy, andeconomics. There’s also a small collection of Russian literature and what looks like biographies of powerful men.
A wet bar sits in the corner with several expensive bottles of vodka and whiskey neatly arranged.
I move around the room, driven by desperate curiosity. If I’m going to survive this marriage, I need an upper hand. Right now, Maxim is still a complete stranger, cold, violent, and completely unreadable.
I run my fingers along the edge of his desk and start going through his papers. Most of them are contracts and financial reports I don’t understand. Then I open a drawer and my eyes land on a folder tucked slightly underneath some others. Orphanage. I frown, confused. Why would a man like Maxim care about orphanages?
I reach for the folder to get a better look when the office door suddenly swings open behind me.
The moment Maxim steps into the office, the entire room seems to shrink. A dark, oppressive cloud follows him, sucking all the air out of the space.
He’s cleaned up. The blood that was splattered across his face and shirt is gone. He’s changed into a fresh black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing powerful, veined muscles. But the fury on his face is unmistakable. His dark eyes are stormy, jaw clenched tight, and that cold, expression should make me recoil.
But for some reason, I don’t. I drop the orphanage document like it burned my fingers.
He stands in the doorway for a long second, staring at me like I’m an intruder he’s deciding whether to punish or devour.
