I glare at him, refusing to let him see how his words sink under my skin. The more I fight, the more he seems to enjoy it. He feeds on my anger, drinks in my defiance. I think about the way he touched me that night, how my body betrayed me, how I shattered and hated myself for it… and a fresh wave of shame washes through me.
I focus on the tea, willing myself to keep breathing, to keep from breaking in front of him.
Halfway through breakfast, a maid enters to clear the plates. She moves too quickly, nearly dropping a stack of dishes. The head servant snaps at her in Russian, his voice loud and impatient. He glances at me, and in that glance is a world of judgment: the spoiled foreign bride, the outsider.
I ignore him, but Emil’s attention sharpens. He speaks a single word in Russian, and the man freezes. The silence stretches. Emil rises from his chair, crosses the room with slow, measured steps, and fixes the servant with a look that could freeze the sun.
“Apologize,” Emil says, his voice low, deadly. The servant stammers, eyes wide. He bows to me, muttering something that sounds like regret, and then flees the room. Emil turns back tome, expression unchanged, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
His protection is absolute, but it is terrifying. I don’t know whether to be grateful or horrified. His power is a blade only sometimes wielded for me, but always reminding me who holds the hilt.
When the room is empty again, Emil resumes his seat. “No one disrespects my wife,” he says quietly, eyes locked on mine. “Not in my house.”
I should feel safe. Instead, I feel smaller, more trapped. The reality is as clear as the porcelain in my hand—I am precious here, but only because I belong to him. I am the line he’s drawn in the sand, the proof of his victory, and everyone knows it.
He reaches across the table, brushing his fingers over mine. It’s a touch so casual and intimate it makes me flinch. He watches the reaction, the tension in my shoulders, the set of my jaw. He likes it. I see it in his eyes.
I sip the tea, tasting memory and defiance and something dangerously close to longing. I am his, but I am not broken. Not yet.
Every day, I remind myself the cage is gilded, but it is still a cage. I will not let myself forget.
***
That night, I curl up in the window seat, knees drawn to my chest, chin pressed to my arms. The sky outside is dark velvet, the city lights stretched out in patterns I can’t decipher. From here, the world looks quiet, orderly, like nothing bad could ever happen, like no one is plotting, or dying, or trapped behind glass in a palace built from fear.
The quiet is a lie, and so is the stillness inside me.
I hate Emil. I hate everything he’s taken, everything he’s made me become. I hate the weight of his name, the way every guard and servant bows their head and calls me Mrs. Sharov, as if the old Isabella is gone for good.
It isn’t simple. It never is. I can’t forget the way Emil looks at me, like I’m the only thing in this fortress that feels real to him. I can’t stop remembering the way his voice softens, just slightly, when he says my name. It’s as if it means something only we understand.
I can’t forget the way he touches me, sometimes careful, sometimes brutal, and the way it leaves me burning for hours afterward: shamed, furious, alive in ways I never asked for.
Every day, the hatred and the confusion grow side by side. I nurse my anger, sharpening it like a knife, but then he does something I can’t explain.
A remembered cup of tea, a hand on my back when he thinks I’m not looking, the flash of panic in his eyes when I wince at a loud noise. The longer I live here, the harder it gets to draw the lines.
The longer I fight him, the more I feel myself unraveling. I’m not sure which is stronger anymore—my loathing, or the slow, sick fascination that comes with knowing he’d burn the world for me, if only I’d let him.
A soft knock startles me. The door cracks open, and Dimitri steps inside. He’s always respectful—more so than anyone else in this house—but there’s a distance to him, a watchfulness that never fades.
“May I?” he asks, nodding toward the second armchair in the corner.
I shrug, wary but too tired to fight. “Do I have a choice?”
He smiles, a faint, dry twist of his mouth. “Not really.” He sits, elbows on his knees, hands laced. “You’ve had a difficult day.”
I don’t answer. I turn back to the window, watching the headlights snake along the distant river. Dimitri lets the silence stretch, unbothered. Eventually, he says, “You’re stronger than I expected.”
I huff out a bitter laugh. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.” He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “Emil isn’t an easy man. He respects strength, but he doesn’t always know what to do with it.”
I bite my lip, fiddling with the sleeve of my robe. “Does he tell you to check on me?”
“Sometimes.” Dimitri’s gaze is steady, honest in a way that unsettles me. “Sometimes I come because I want to. Not everyone in this house wants you to suffer, Isabella.”
I don’t believe him—not really—but I say nothing. There’s too much tangled up inside me to sort out the truth from the lies. “He’s going to start a war, isn’t he?” I ask, voice small. “With my uncle. With everyone.”
