Reason. Because that’s what I know first—logic, facts, solutions. “He’ll never stop,” I tell him, voice shaking but steady enough to lay out a plan. “My father will never stop. If you hand me back, I’ll help you take him down. I’ll give you everything—names, routes, ledgers. I can unravel him from the inside. Use me. Don’t marry me.” I speak fast, words tumbling like I can outrun his patience. “I can be useful. I can make it worse for him than he ever imagined.”
“I already have a plan.” His tone is monotonous.
Next is fury—rage that I let out, sharp and bitter. “You think you’re being noble?” I spit. “You’re a man with a reputation and a chessboard. You’re buying a daughter like a piece you can move. I will never be a part of that.” I pitch my voice so high my throat hurts. “I won’t be bought again.”
Then, when fury proves only fuel for him to tighten his jaw, I beg. “Please,” the word is as small and ragged as a match. “Please don’t make me marry you. Don’t make me stand in front of your brothers and sign my life away. I’ll disappear. I’ll leave the country. Take my passport. Take my bank accounts. Let me be gone. I’ll never speak of this. I’ll never come back.” My pleas soak the wool at his sleeve, and for a flash—a heartbeat—something passes across his face, like a shutter closing.
“Think of me as…as expendable,” I whisper. “Use me as a lever, not as a wife. Use me for the ledger leads. Please. I’ll do anything. Anything.” The pleading changes me—strips away dignity like clothing—and I hate myself for it, for the sound my voice makes and the way my body trembles.
When pleading doesn’t move him either, I try leverage of another kind: pity mixed with threat. “If you make me Rusnak,” I say, choking on the words, “you’ll own my life. But you’ll own my hate too. I’ll never forgive you. If you want me to be useful and loyal, you’ll have to earn it. Otherwise, you get the worst of me: a quiet enemy inside your walls.” I glance up to catch hiseyes, searching for any flicker that might mean he’s human. He doesn’t give me one.
“I don’t care if you hate me, Elara. In fact, I highly recommend it.” His voice is calm—too calm—and that quiet edge slices deeper than if he’d shouted. He turns toward the door like the conversation is over.
“Like I said,” he adds, hand on the knob, “the wedding’s in two days. Prepare for it.”
My mouth opens before I can stop it. “Roman, this is—”
He whirls around, eyes flashing. “Elara, I’m asking you one last time. Marriage or death. Choose. Right now.”
The words hang in the air, sharp and final. My throat dries up. I try to hold his gaze, but my chest feels like it’s caving in.
“Choose,” he growls, stepping closer. “Now.”
“Roman—”
“Now!”
My heart stutters, and before I can think, the words tumble out. “I hate you,” I spit, trembling. “I’ll marry you, but I hate you so much.”
He studies me for a long, silent moment. Then he nods once, like that’s all he needed, and turns to leave.
But I can’t let him go—not yet. “Wait.” My voice cracks. “If I’m going to do this, I want Sasha there. And Vivian, my best friend. I won’t be married without anyone who actually loves me standing by.”
He pauses at the door. I half expect him to say no. If he says no, there’s nothing I can do.
“Sasha will be there,” he says finally. “As family. With Lev. Your Vivian will be invited too.”
I blink, thrown. “You don’t even know Vivian. How—how are you going to find her?”
He glances back at me, expression unreadable. “I have my ways.”
And then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me standing in the silence, half shaking, half hollow, the sound of his words echoing like a sentence I just agreed to serve.
I notice something strange. He doesn’t lock the door this time. Hell, he doesn’t even bother to close it all the way.
For a long moment, I just stare at it, at the narrow gap where the hall light spills through. It should mean freedom. It should mean choice. But I know better.
It’s not mercy. It’s a message.
He’s telling me I can leave if I want to—but that I won’t get far. That the guards outside, the walls, the eyes, all belong to him. Leaving the door open is a pure power move. Bastard.
Somehow, it makes me feel even more trapped than before.
I drag a shaky breath and glance around the room that suddenly feels too small, too polished, too heavy with silence. I can’t stay in here—not another minute.
So I decide to walk. Just to breathe. To remind myself what air feels like.
It’ll be the first time I’ve stepped outside in weeks.
