Still... life here was comfortable. Too comfortable.
My accounts overflowed with more money than I dared to spend.
The pantry brimmed with delicacies imported from five countries.
Vanya’s wardrobe held tailored jackets and soft cashmere sweaters.
A private doctor visited monthly, tending to the scars from the gunshot, the C-section, the wounds time refused to heal.
Tutors taught Vanya Greek, mathematics, fencing for discipline.
A staff of silent, efficient servants anticipated needs I never voiced.
But comfort is a velvet cage.
And cages always come with a price.
This morning, that price arrived.
A letter—sealed in crimson wax—waited on my mahogany desk, its presence a quiet thunderclap in the stillness of my routine. The air felt charged around it, thick with the electricity of the unknown.
Outside, Vanya was playing in the courtyard, his laughter twining with the soft rustle of olive leaves.
He darted between the trees, navy jacket flapping behind him, chased by Ruslan’s mute son—a boy who had not spoken a single word since his mother’s death five years ago. Ruslan had scoured the world for healers: neurologists, speech therapists, shamans, mystics. None had succeeded. The boy remained locked in his silent grief... except when he played with Vanya.
Watching them, my heart tightened.
My son—my greatest joy, my closest companion, my reason.
Then my gaze returned to the letter.
Its weight pressed against my chest as though it carried the sum of five years of unanswered questions. My fingers trembled as I traced the crimson seal, my breath hitching.
Did Ruslan finally want repayment?
He was known for many things—but never romance. He scoffed at love. He dismissed marriage as a weakness. So whatever he wanted from me... it would not be intimacy.
But protection this powerful... five years of shelter, tutors, doctors, wealth... no mafia king gave all that without purpose.
I steeled myself, tore open the envelope, felt the crisp bite of paper beneath my shaking fingers.
And then I read.
Dear Penelope,
It’s been a quiet comfort knowing you’ve built a life here—one of peace, safety, and dignity. You’ve raised your son well. His joy, his spirit... both are a testament to you. Your strength hasn’t gone unnoticed.
There is something you must know.
My old friend, Dmitri Volkov, believes you died five years ago. He buried an empty coffin with his own hands. And since that day, he has been unraveling—searching for you across borders, mourning you like a man who lost not just a wife, but the last piece of himself that was still human.
I do not regret hiding you after the chaos that nearly killed you. You needed distance. You needed silence. You needed protection from both him and your father. But I never intended to keep you from him forever. Whether you want it or not, you are bound to Dmitri—by vows, by blood, by the son you carried through hell.
Five years is a long time for any empire to wait.
And now the walls around Dmitri are collapsing. The Orlov family is pushing him into marriage with their daughter, Seraphina. Politics are a battlefield, Penelope, and Dmitri’s refusal to remarry has cost him almost everything. His promise—that he would never take another wife after losing you—was carved into ice the day he watched your coffin sink into the ground.
But even ice melts.
