I hesitated for half a second, then obeyed. The glass surface was cool under my skin. A soft green light pulsed with eachpress. Somewhere inside the wall, a lock disengaged with a muted click.
“Your thumbprint is now registered,” he said, pushing the door open. “You can lock and unlock it yourself. No one else has access without Mr. Baranov’s override.”
That sentence settled in my chest like a stone.
Without Mr. Baranov’s override.
So—privacy, but conditional. Safety, but borrowed.
The bedroom was enormous.
White walls stretched upward, unbroken and immaculate.
A king-sized platform bed dominated the center of the room, dressed in crisp charcoal linens that looked untouched, unused. The mattress was low, severe, and unmistakably expensive—designed for sleep, not comfort.
I swallowed.
“I’ll need to go back to my place eventually,” I said, breaking the silence. “To get my things.”
Petros nodded as though he’d expected it. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll arrange a driver and an escort.”
I turned to look at him. “Escort?”
His expression didn’t change, but something tightened around his eyes. “If you need to go anywhere—anywhere at all—you must inform me first. We’ll provide appropriate security.”
Appropriate security.
I let out a humorless breath. “Because I’m married to him now.”
“Yes.” A beat. “Because you’re Ruslan Baranov’s wife now. That makes you a potential target. We have enemies here. Many of them.”
Enemies plural. Of course.
He paused at the threshold, then added more quietly, almost kindly, “Good luck, ma’am.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, his broad shoulders retreating down the corridor. The sound of his footsteps faded. The door clicked shut behind him with soft finality.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door.
Then my knees gave out.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, the expensive mattress dipping slightly under my weight, utterly silent. No creak. No protest.
My hands trembled as I brought them to my face. Dried blood flaked from my knuckles, dusting my skin.
I pressed my palms over my eyes and breathed—slow, shallow breaths, the kind you take when you’re afraid that if you inhale too deeply, everything will collapse.
What was I doing here?
What had my life become?
A street fight. A wedding from hell. A forced marriage to a man who looked at me like I was already dead.
After several long minutes of staring at nothing, my mind finally went blank. I didn’t even remember falling asleep. One moment I was awake, suspended in exhaustion and dread, and the next—I jolted upright, heart racing, lungs dragging in air like I’d been pulled from deep water.
The room felt wrong.
Unfamiliar.
