She looks up at me, eyes bright with something fierce and uncertain. “That’s all I ask for.”
The city is waking outside the window, but for a moment there’s only us, quiet, tangled together, suspended in this rare, fragile peace. I smooth her hair, memorizing the weight of her against me, the sound of her breath, the way her heart matches mine.
Whatever happens next, I know I’m lost. I know I’m hers.
Chapter Twenty-One - Clara
The morning after is quieter than I expect. For a long time, I lie in the tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling, the city’s pale sunlight slanting in through the high windows.
Lukyan’s side of the bed is cold. He’s already gone, but the faint trace of his cologne lingers on the pillow, a secret that makes my chest ache.
I pull on a robe and pad down the hall, heart skipping with each silent step. My mind races with fragments of last night—his hands, his voice, the truths he finally let slip in the darkness.
The house is all hard angles and quiet, the day already moving forward as if nothing has changed.
When I finally find him, he’s in the study, standing at the window with his phone pressed to his ear, back rigid, voice low and sharp. I linger in the doorway, watching him pace, noticing the bruises blooming across his knuckles. I want to ask what happened, what violence he met this morning while I was still dreaming, but I hold my tongue. Some things are better left unsaid.
He sees me. For a moment, our eyes lock—one heartbeat, full of everything that has shifted between us. Then he looks away, ending the call with a clipped word. “You should eat,” he says, voice flat, and brushes past me without another glance. As if last night never happened. As if everything has.
I stand there, lost, fingers twisting the sash of my robe. I want to follow him, to ask what I am to him now, but pride—or maybe fear—roots me in place. I spend the morning in a daze, sipping coffee I don’t taste, staring at a book without seeing the words. I move through the mansion like a ghost, haunted by thememory of his hands, the confession that slipped between us in the dark.
The day drags. By evening, the house comes alive, staff bustling, voices sharp and hurried.
“Clara, you’re to wear this.”
“Clara, your hair.”
“Clara, be ready by eight.”
I let them fuss, let them paint my lips, pin my hair, drape me in silk and diamonds I know don’t belong to me.
When Lukyan finds me, he’s immaculate—tailored black suit, jaw clean-shaven, eyes unreadable. He offers his arm. I take it, fingers trembling against the crisp fabric of his sleeve.
The car ride is silent, the city glowing and restless outside the tinted glass. My nerves twist as we arrive at the gala—a world of polished marble and gold, the reek of money and secrets thick as perfume.
Cameras flash. People part as Lukyan enters, some bowing their heads, some whispering his name. He moves like he owns the room, guiding me with a steady hand at the small of my back.
For a moment, I find my footing. I keep my chin up, smile when I must, say little, let the noise wash over me. Here, I am nothing but an accessory, and for once that feels almost safe.
Then, from across the ballroom, she appears.
Tall, elegant, impossibly poised—Irina Volkova. She glides toward us in a shimmer of silver and red lips, her confidence a weapon sharper than any knife. There’s history in the set of her shoulders, the way she smiles at Lukyan, brushing her arm against his as she greets him.
“Lukyan,” she purrs, voice smooth as velvet. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing company tonight.”
He stiffens beside me, his grip at my waist tightening. “She’s my wife. Clara goes where I go.”
The words should comfort me. Instead, they thud in my chest, uncertain and raw. Irina’s eyes flick to me, bright with amusement, her smirk curling as if she’s seen all this before, and knows how it ends.
“Charming,” she says, her tone a challenge masked as a compliment. “I do hope she enjoys herself.”
For a moment, I see a flicker of something in Lukyan’s eyes—guilt, maybe, or anger, or an old, unhealed wound. Then it’s gone, his face smoothed to that mask I know so well.
Irina lingers, gaze raking over me with calculated interest. The conversation shifts, people gathering around, laughter rising and falling like the music from the band. But the only thing I can feel is her presence, her perfume, her history, the way she makes me feel young and inexperienced and, worst of all, exposed.
I cling to Lukyan’s side, smile brittle, nerves coiling tighter. I want to ask him what Irina means to him, what they were, what they might still be.
Pride won’t let me. Not here, not with so many eyes on us, not with his hand steady at my back and hers still on his sleeve.
