PENELOPE
Isat rigid in the passenger seat, forcing my mind away from his question, away from the fierce scrutiny in his eyes that seemed to probe every corner of my soul.
Instead, I studied myself—the dress that bound me, the ring that chained me—and this strange, suffocating world I had stepped into by this marriage. A world that belonged to him, and yet, for now, he had no idea how much of it I intended to poison from within.
My wedding gown hadn’t been designed for a car.
Silk pooled awkwardly around my ankles, the train crushed beneath my heels like something already ruined.
The diamond ring on my finger felt less like a promise and more like a restraint—cold, heavy. Every time I flexed my hand, it reminded me of what I had agreed to. What I had sacrificed.
My heart beat too loud. Too fast. A drumroll announcing a lie that couldn’t hold forever.
Dmitri exhaled slowly, the sound tight with irritation at my silence.
He withdrew from me and faced the road, his jaw locking into a mask of control. Yet the car remained dead beneath us—engine silent, motionless—trapping us together in the space where neither of us had won.
His profile was all sharp lines and control—jaw set, mouth carved into something unreadable.
Both hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, veins standing out along his forearms like cables pulled too tight.
The silence between us was not empty.
It pressed. It breathed. It waited.
Dmitri broke the silence, his voice low and lethal.
“I see you’re unwilling to give me answers,” he said, eyes burning with controlled fury. “You think I wouldn’t notice how carefully you hide everything... how much of yourself you’re willing to lie about?”
I let out a slow, sharp laugh, cold and deliberate. “Answers? Oh, Mr. Volkov... it’s hardly a crime to resemble your late wife.” I turned to him, letting the weight of my gaze press against his. “You, on the other hand... you chose to marry a woman who could pass for her twin. That’s your obsession, not mine.”
He narrowed his eyes, dangerous.
“And don’t think your fury frightens me,” I added, letting the words drip like ice. “I’m not your ghost to control.”
His jaw flexed.
Once. Twice.
The muscle ticked like a warning.
“No,” he said quietly.
I turned toward him. “No?”
“I’m done being played.”
He turned his head, and the look in his eyes made my stomach drop. Fury was there—but beneath it, something far worse. Desperation. Grief sharpened into obsession.
“You’re not some random tourist,” he said. “You’re not a coincidence. You’re Penelope.” His voice roughened. “My Penelope.”
The name landed like a blow.
“You never died,” he went on, breath tight. “Ruslan faked it. Covered it. Buried an empty coffin and told me you were ashes.”His gaze bored into me. “You either came back from the dead... or you never left.”
My heart slammed so hard I thought he might hear it.
Blood roared in my ears, heat rushing to my face, but I forced my expression into irritation—offense sharpened into annoyance.
