Silence swallowed the room.
Then his face twisted, veins standing out along his neck as rage flooded him in an instant. “You clumsy little idiot!” he roared, slamming his fist against the table so hard the plates rattled. His hand closed around my arm before I could even apologize, fingers biting deep enough to bruise.
He dragged me down the hallway, my feet barely touching the floor, and shoved me into my room. The door slammed. The lock turned.
No explanation. No comfort. No dinner.
I sat there for hours, staring at the walls, listening to the muffled sounds of the house continuing without me. That night stayed with me—not because it was the worst thing he’d ever done, but because it showed me how quickly love could be revoked. How fragile safety really was.
And yet—even with memories like that—I’d never thought him utterly heartless.
Not until now.
Not until this marriage forced upon me like a sentence. Not until I realized my entire life had been manipulated, every path quietly redirected by his hand.
Ruslan’s voice yanked me back into the present.
Cold. Measured. Final.
“Since you refuse to fulfill your duties as my wife,” he said, tone devoid of emotion, “we leave for Greece tomorrow. You will live there permanently, by my side—where no one can reach you but me.”
The words struck like a physical blow.
I surged to my feet, the room spinning as panic slammed into my chest. “No... no,” I whispered, shaking my head as if denial alone could undo his decree. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
I’d imagined leaving California someday—fantasized about it in quieter moments. A small town. A clean slate. Somewhere anonymous.
But Greece?
An ocean away. A language I didn’t speak. No friends. No escape.
That wasn’t relocation.
That was exile.
“Please,” I said, my voice breaking. “Anything but that.”
Fear clawed at me, sharp and unrelenting, stripping away pride, dignity, every shred of restraint.
I crawled across the space between us, knees scraping against the rough carpet, body trembling.
My hands reached for him—not with longing, not with trust—but with a raw, desperate need, a plea that had no words, only the silent scream of someone on the edge of everything they could endure.
“You want obedience?” I whispered hoarsely. “Fine.”
Shame burned my throat, but terror burned hotter.
“I’ll give you what you want.”
I barely registered his movement before his hand closed around my wrist, firm and absolute, halting me instantly. His other hand lifted my chin, forcing my gaze upward.
His eyes were dark, stormy, unreadable.
“Stop,” he said sharply.
The command froze me.
Fear surged, sharp and breathless, as I stared up at him. “Please,” I whispered. “I don’t want to leave the United States.” The words spilled out in a rush. “We can go somewhere else. Another city. Somewhere far from California. Somewhere the five families won’t follow. Las Vegas. Chicago. Anywhere.”
