Page 43 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

"I really love painting," Elena said. "Not because it makes me somebody. Not because I want out from under the Rossi name. When I hold a brush, I just get to be me."

No woman playing games looked at the world like that.

I remembered what Isabella had used to say. Elena pretended she didn't fit in just to seem special. She painted to pull attention. That was the story Isabella had fed me.

I'd never checked it. Because Isabella was the woman I'd decided to marry, I treated her opinion like fact. Every time Elena went quiet, I called it hiding something. Every time she defended herself, I called it manipulation. Even her protecting her supplies—I'd taken it as a performance.

I'd hurt her in the exact way I despised.

My father had never listened to my mother. He'd decided she was weak and inconvenient. He'd believed a mistress's tears were more real than a wife's pain. After my mother died, I'd sworn I'd never become him.

And yet I was repeating his arrogance.

"I am sorry," I said, and the words scraped out of me. "I shouldn't have insulted your paintings. I shouldn't have had your things thrown out. And I sure as hell shouldn't have decided what kind of person you were before I actually knew you."

I had never admitted I was wrong to anyone. Truth was, I'd almost never believed I could be wrong. But now I saw exactly where I'd fucked up.

Her expression went blank for a heartbeat.

"I convicted you without proof," I went on. "That was on me."

"So you believe I didn't drive Isabella away?" she asked.

The photos in my office drawer still needed answers. Why Isabella had left, why she hadn't contacted anyone—I didn't have it all yet. But I couldn't keep pinning it on Elena just because it was convenient.

"I believe you," I said, holding her eyes.

Her eyes reddened at the corners. A tear slipped free when she blinked.

"You don't know what that means to me," she said, voice breaking. "You are Kiryan Morozov. Everyone listens to you. Nobody dares tell you you are wrong."

I lifted my hand and wiped the wet from the corner of her eye. "Just because nobody says it doesn't mean the wrong isn't real."

Goddamn it. I didn't want to see her cry again. I wanted her smile. I wanted to know what she liked besides painting. I wanted her to look at me without fear showing up first.

"Give me time," I said quietly. "At least let me prove I am not always an asshole. Okay?"

"That is going to take a long time," she said.

"I have patience."

That night, we talked in the studio for hours. She told me how she'd secretly saved up to buy her first set of paints. She told me she loved rainy days but hated thunder. Outside the windows, the deep blue of night softened into gold. The more we talked, the more she relaxed, and little by little she leaned closer.

Then she fell asleep against my shoulder. Her lashes rested on her cheeks, and the curve of her mouth still held the echo of her last smile.

I carried her back to my bed.

My wife should've been sleeping in my room.

Chapter 12

Elena

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

His low voice rolled in from behind me just as one foot hit the carpet.

Golden sunlight leaked through a crack in the curtains, lighting up a strange charcoal-gray rug and those cold, minimalist touches.