My heart betrayed me, quietly, constantly, in ways I hated myself for.
In the dining room, he sometimes glanced at me for a second—just long enough for me to notice—before looking away again, as if even brief eye contact was something he refused to allow.
In the hallways, he passed me without speaking.
He never brushed against me, never slowed down, but his presence still felt heavy. Even after he was gone, the faint scent of his cologne lingered, reminding me he had been there.
The nights were the hardest.
I slept alone in the large bed we were supposed to share, surrounded by silence. I stared at the ceiling for hours, unable to rest, listening to the quiet sounds of the house. Guards moved somewhere beyond the walls. The place never truly slept—and neither did I.
And in the dark, my thoughts turned against me.
In my mind, we weren’t enemies tied together by revenge and blame.
We were something else.
I imagined us walking together along a coastline at sunset, barefoot, the air warm, his hand holding mine as if it belonged there. In those thoughts, his expression wasn’t cold or angry. It was calm. Protective.
Sometimes I imagined us sitting at a small café in another country, sharing quiet moments, speaking softly, touching without fear or tension—just two people, unguarded.
And in the most dangerous thoughts of all, there was no anger between us. No power, no punishment, no past standing in the way. Just closeness. Just peace.
Those thoughts disgusted me.
I hated myself for wanting anything from a man who had caused me so much pain. For imagining tenderness where none had been offered.
But feelings don’t follow logic. And hope—no matter how foolish—can survive even where it doesn’t belong.
So I endured.
One silent day after another. One quiet night after another.
Trapped not only inside Ruslan Baranov’s mansion—but inside my own heart, which refused to let go of what could never be.
In my dreams, we were somewhere far away—alone, safe, untouched by reality.
We danced barefoot on a quiet beach late at night. The sand was cool, the waves gentle around our feet.
The sky was full of stars, brighter than I’d ever seen. He held me close, steady, real. His forehead rested against mine, and for once, he wasn’t cold or distant.
When he spoke of the future, his voice wasn’t sharp or cruel. It sounded unsure. Afraid. Like a man who was scared to lose something that mattered.
They were beautiful dreams.
Impossible ones.
Every morning, I forced myself to remember that they weren’t real. They were only the result of loneliness. Of wanting comfort in a place where none existed.
He was a stranger to me.
And he always would be.
One day, this would end. Maybe with divorce papers quietly placed in front of me. Maybe with him returning to Greece without a word. Either way, I knew I would disappear from his life as suddenly as I had been pulled into it.
The thought never fully left me. It wasn’t sharp enough to make me cry—but it was always there, heavy in my chest.
To keep myself from drowning in the silence of that mansion, I started leaving at night.
