Her response surprised me. I'd expected gratitude, at least a thank you. But she didn't, maintaining that distance and coldness.
Mother said nothing more, but something stirred restlessly in my chest.
For the family's reputation? Maybe. But when she was so quick to distance herself, irritation still flared within me.
Chapter Eight
Noelle
"Noelle! That's wonderful! You did absolutely perfectly!"
Sofia's voice crackled through the receiver, barely containing her excitement. "You know what? Those families that have been crushing our business—they're all going under! Their cash flow has dried up completely, and now they're scrambling to file for bankruptcy!"
I gripped the phone, leaning against the bedroom window, watching the snow drift down outside.
"Is that so?"
"Of course it's true!" Sofia's tone grew even more animated. "And that dock property that used to be ours? Now people are actually willing to negotiate! Noelle, this is all your doing!"
"My doing?" I gave a bitter laugh. "Mom, I haven't done anything."
"You married Kholod Morozov—that's everything!" Her voice carried that familiar note of certainty. "Noelle, you need to keep this up. Make Kholod treasure you more, make him dependent on you. You understand what I'm saying?"
I closed my eyes as a wave of revulsion washed over me.
"Mom, I'm tired."
"Tired of what?" She suddenly raised her voice. "Noelle, you needto push harder! Are you pregnant yet? If you could give Kholod a son, then our family would truly—"
"Enough." I cut her off sharply. "Mom, I have things to do. I'm hanging up."
"Noelle! You—"
I ended the call abruptly.
Mom claimed the family's turnaround was all thanks to Kholod. That brutal, twisted man—why would he help the Belluccis?
I recalled Anastasia's words at dinner, remembered Kholod's impassive face. Was he really doing this for me? Or for the Morozov family's reputation? Regardless, he had indeed helped my family. At least Mother would believe I was being useful. For the time being, I probably wouldn't receive any more of those suffocating calls urging me to please my husband.
I could have some peace.
At that thought, a flicker of gratitude stirred within me. I couldn't help but recall our moments together since I'd entered this manor—his sudden appearance in the library, those burning amber eyes when he bent to kiss me, his dangerous, invasive presence when he whispered in my ear, the tremor-inducing sensation of his calloused fingertips tracing my skin...
My pulse quickened.
Damn it.
How could I feel this way about him?
Father's face suddenly surfaced in my mind. I remembered clearly how the Bellucci family had crumbled step by step under pressure, remembered Father's increasingly gaunt features, his desperate expression during those late-night threatening phone calls, Mother collapsing with grief at his funeral...
This man was my enemy! How could I feel grateful? How could I experience even a moment's flutter of attraction? He had destroyed my family first, and now he appeared like some kind of savior. What was this? Charity? Or another form of humiliation?
I curled up on the window seat, wrapping myself in the silk throw. Outside, the snow fell more heavily as evening descended.
I sank into deep confusion and inner turmoil.
A few days later, in the afternoon, I was taking tea with Anastasia and Anya in the sun-drenched conservatory.
