I signed quickly, heart pounding.
Go with him. I’ll be here. I promise.
His gaze clung to mine, desperate, as if he believed that if he looked away for even a second I might disappear. Only when Ruslan shifted him higher on his shoulder did Yannis finally turn his face inward, burying it against his father’s suit.
They disappeared through the interior door without another word.
Only then did I realize how tightly I’d been holding myself together.
I let out a slow, shaking breath.
Behind me, a throat cleared.
I turned.
A man stood a few steps away—mid-forties, sharp suit, sharp eyes, posture military-straight but without the bulk of a bodyguard. He watched me the way someone watches a loaded weapon left unattended.
“I’m Petros,” he said evenly. “Personal assistant to Mr. Baranov.”
“Elena,” I replied, my voice still raspy, each word scraping like gravel over damaged cords.
He nodded once, brisk and assessing. No smile. No warmth. Just acknowledgment.
“Come with me.”
I followed him through the garage entrance and into the house.
The interior took my breath in a way I hadn’t expected—and that terrified me more than if it had been ugly.
White marble floors stretched beneath my feet, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the soaring ceilings above.
Walls of glass framed the Pacific like a living painting, the ocean rolling endlessly, indifferent to the lives contained within these walls.
The late-day light poured in, soft and golden, catching on edges and corners with surgical precision. Everything smelled faintly of citrus and clean linen, the kind of curated scent designed to suggest purity while hiding whatever rot lay underneath.
There was no clutter.
No personal chaos.
No warmth.
Only control.
The kind of control that came from someone who did not tolerate disorder—emotional or otherwise.
As we walked, relief crept in alongside the terror, unwelcome but persistent.
Ruslan had said the marriage would be for a while. Temporary. A sentence with an end.
That mattered.
If I played this right—if I stayed alive long enough—I could still salvage my inheritance. Harris could be dealt with later. Men like him were transactional. Predictable. Ruslan Baranov was neither.
And separate rooms. Thank God.
I could endure almost anything for a little while. Pain had become a language I spoke fluently. Fear, an old companion.
I had to endure.
