For a split second, panic seized me. My gaze darted around, trying to make sense of my surroundings—the high ceiling, the heavy drapes, the muted light filtering through them. Then it dawned on me.
This was the room Petros had given me.
Mine.
At least, for now.
I wasn’t used to it. And how could I be? Sleeping in enemy territory—Ruslan Baranov’s house of all places—felt unnatural, almost reckless. My nerves buzzed as if danger might crawl out of the walls at any moment.
Before my thoughts could spiral any further, I focused on the one thing I could control. I needed a bath. I felt grimy, wrung out, like the day had soaked into my skin.
I crossed the room and went straight to the wardrobe, already resigned to improvising. I hadn’t brought my luggage with me. I had arrived here with nothing but the clothes on my back and too many fears to count.
I slid the doors open.
They moved soundlessly.
Inside, rows of women’s clothing hung in immaculate order—silk blouses in muted jewel tones, tailored trousers, wool coats arranged by shade, cashmere sweaters folded with almost obsessive precision. Shoes lined the lower shelves, polished and pristine.
Nothing had tags.
A chill traced its way down my spine.
A faint scent of jasmine lingered on the fabric.
Someone had lived here before me.
The realization flickered through my mind, distant and oddly dull. I didn’t ask who she was. Wife? Lover? Ghost?
I didn’t care.
Right now, all I wanted was to wash the day off my skin.
The en-suite bathroom was all marble and glass, cool and immaculate. Twin sinks. A rain shower encased in crystal-clear panels. A deep soaking tub carved from a single slab of stone.
It felt less like a bathroom and more like a private spa—sterile, luxurious, impersonal.
I peeled off the ruined wedding gown slowly. The fabric stuck in places where blood had dried. Every movement tugged at myinjuries—the split in my lip, the swelling along the bridge of my nose, the deep bruises blooming across my ribs. When the dress finally pooled at my feet, it looked like a discarded skin.
I raised my eyes to the mirror.
The woman staring back at me barely resembled the person I’d been yesterday.
One eye was already turning a violent shade of purple. My nose sat slightly crooked, swollen and red. My lower lip was split and angry, twice its normal size. Faint abrasions marked my cheek and jaw. I looked like someone who had survived something she wasn’t supposed to.
I stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as it would go.
The first blast hit my face like needles. I hissed, instinctively arching my back, gripping the tile for balance. Soap burned when it touched broken skin. I let the water run anyway, washing over me, carrying blood and dirt and sweat down the drain.
Tears came without warning, mixing seamlessly with the spray. I didn’t sob. I didn’t make a sound. I just stood there and let the water take it all, because crying loudly felt dangerous in a house like this.
When I finally turned the shower off, my skin was pink and oversensitive, my body trembling—not from cold, but from exhaustion.
I wrapped myself in a thick white towel and stepped back into the bedroom. I paused in front of the mirror once more.
Clean now. Bruised. Broken.
I stared at my reflection and made myself a promise.
