The cold seeped into my cheek, grounding and cruel.
My fingers curled uselessly against the stone as sobs tore through me in ugly, wrenching waves—no grace, no restraint left.
Chapter 9
ELENA
The three weeks since our wedding had been miserable inside Ruslan Baranov’s enormous mansion.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just cold and controlled.
Ruslan never shouted at me. He never threatened me outright. He didn’t have to.
Everything about my life there felt planned—my movements, my silence, even my loneliness.
I was kept apart without being locked away, made invisible without being hidden.
Nothing happened by accident.
I saw it most clearly in Yannis’s daily routine.
From the moment the sun rose, his day was mapped out down to the minute.
Private tutors came and went in steady rotation, teaching him advanced mathematics and Russian literature that felt far beyond what a child his age should be learning.
A Mandarin instructor—brought in from China, highly qualified and serious—worked with him for hours until every word came out perfectly, his young voice shaping the language with unsettling accuracy.
Afternoons were spent on physical training.
A former Olympic coach ran the sessions—strict, unsmiling, the type of man who believed children should be disciplined early and pushed hard. There was no room for play, only results.
Then there was the television appearance.
Once a week, a local California news crew came to the estate. They’d discovered Yannis’s intelligence and calm manner and turned him into a story—a child prodigy, serious beyond his years, brilliant and composed.
Under the studio lights, he answered questions politely, speaking with confidence, sitting perfectly still. Viewers loved him. Social media praised him. Commentators admired Ruslan as a devoted, impressive father.
That was no accident.
Ruslan made sure the story looked that way.
I understood what he was doing.
Every hour Yannis spent studying, training, or performing for cameras was an hour he wasn’t with me. Every achievement pushed into the spotlight pulled him a little farther away.
Slowly, deliberately, the bond between us weakened.
Ruslan was making sure his son no longer needed me.
He had said it plainly on the second day of our marriage, his voice calm and final:
“The only reason you’re still breathing is because Vanya needs you.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact.
My life had value only as long as I was useful.
And yet—despite knowing this, despite the cold way he looked at me whenever we crossed paths in the vast halls of the house—I couldn’t stop myself from feeling things I shouldn’t.
