Whatever Ruslan Baranov believed about me—whatever he planned—I would survive it.
I always did.
I dressed in the simplest things I could find—soft black long-sleeved top, loose gray lounge pants that didn’t press against my ribs.
I skipped the bra.
Normally, the lack of support would have made my skin crawl, but tonight even fabric felt like an enemy. Everything hurt. Everything rubbed. Everything reminded me that I was still in a body that could be broken.
My stomach chose that moment to growl.
Loud. Sharp. Almost accusatory.
I pressed a hand to my abdomen, surprised by the intensity of the hunger. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday—no time, no appetite, no safety. Now my body was demanding payment, clawing at my ribs from the inside, reminding me that survival required fuel.
I couldn’t stay locked in this room forever.
Whatever Ruslan Baranov intended for me, hiding would only delay it. Delay had never saved anyone for long.
I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
The house looked different at dusk—softer, more dangerous.
Recessed lights glowed along the baseboards, casting warm shadows across the white marble.
I walked slowly, barefoot, taking in the details I’d missed earlier
The décor wasn’t accidental. It was a statement.
I was so absorbed that I nearly missed the edge of the staircase.
My foot slipped over nothing.
For one terrifying second, gravity claimed me. I caught the railing at the last instant, fingers screaming as they clenched cold metal. My heart slammed so hard it stole my breath.
“Easy, ma’am.”
The voice came from below.
I looked up.
Petros stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching me with that same unreadable calm. He’d changed since earlier.
Gone was the neutral black suit. Now he wore deep crimson—tailored, immaculate, the color rich and deliberate.
The color of fresh blood.
“I was just about to call your room,” he said evenly.
I forced myself to straighten, then descended carefully, each step deliberate. I wouldn’t give this house the satisfaction of seeing me fall again.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice still rough, cords aching.
“Mr. Ruslan has requested your presence for dinner,” Petros said. “As newlyweds, he thought the first meal should be... special.”
The word landed wrong.
Special had teeth.
