The garage alone was larger than my entire apartment. Polished concrete floors. A row of vehicles parked like predatory animals at rest—SUVs, a matte-black motorcycle, another supercar I didn’t recognize.
The engine cut.
For a second, no one moved.
Then I stepped out.
My legs wobbled as my feet hit the smooth concrete, pain flaring up my ribs and spine like a delayed explosion.
The torn wedding gown dragged behind me, heavy with dirt and dried blood, the hem frayed and uneven like something clawed apart. It felt less like a dress now and more like evidence—of violence, of choices I couldn’t undo.
Ruslan emerged from the passenger side.
He looked unreal in the clean lines of his tailored suit, the blood-red tie a slash of color against white concrete and glass. Jaw set. Shoulders squared. Eyes dark and unreadable, like a storm holding its breath.
He didn’t look at me. Not once. It was as though acknowledging me might require restraint he didn’t intend to give.
“Petros will show you to your room,” he said flatly, voice directed at the space beside me rather than my face.
Then he turned to his son.
“Come on,” he said to Yannis, the edge gone from his tone—not gentle, exactly, but softer. Controlled.
Yannis didn’t move.
He looked up at me instead, his small face pinched with something like panic. His lips parted. Moved. Tried to shape a word.
Nothing came out.
He tried again, brows knitting together, cheeks puffing slightly with effort. The silence slammed back into place like a door locked from the outside.
My chest tightened.
I moved before my fear could catch up with me—kneeling despite the sharp protest of my ribs, lowering myself until I waseye-level with him. I took both his small hands in mine, feeling the slight tremor there.
“It’s okay,” I signed gently, keeping my movements slow, steady. Then I spoke aloud too, my voice rough but warm, so Ruslan could hear. “You don’t have to t-talk. Just sign.”
Yannis exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. His shoulders dropped. Relief flooded his face.
His fingers began to move—quick, eager, precise.
I want to stay with Elena.
The words hit me unexpectedly hard.
I translated automatically. “He says he wants to stay with me.”
Ruslan’s expression didn’t change—but something flickered behind his eyes. A flash of calculation. Suspicion. Something darker, sharper, as though a blade had shifted position just beneath the surface.
“No,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “Yannis, she’ll be living here for a while, okay?” A pause. “But right now I need to ask you a few questions. And you need a bath.”
He reached for his son.
Yannis stiffened instantly—small body locking, fingers tightening in my hands. His eyes went wide, pleading as they searched my face. Panic radiated off him in waves.
Ruslan lifted him anyway.
The motion was effortless, strong arms gentle but unyielding. Yannis made a small sound—not a word, just breath—and twisted to look back at me over his father’s shoulder.
