I tell myself I can leave, but every route leads past a pair of guards who never speak, never smile, never move unless ordered.
This house was once a fortress I tried to escape. Now it’s my home, on paper and in law, and the irony makes me want to laugh and scream all at once. The dining room is empty except for one nervous housekeeper, who glances away as I enter.
I slide into a seat, staring at a breakfast spread I have no appetite for.
Eggs gone cold, pastries too delicate to touch. I push food around my plate, try to look busy, to look like I belong. But every movement feels false. Every sound—the hum of the air conditioner, the muted clink of silver—reminds me I’m being watched, even when I’m alone.
I dress in clothes chosen by someone else, a wardrobe curated for the perfect Mafia bride. Cashmere, silk, black andivory and gold. I let a stylist brush my hair, let a maid paint my nails, let the ritual numb me.
I scroll through texts from Elara, from my mother—safe, bright words on a glowing screen, proof that there’s still a world outside these gates. Elara sends memes and a selfie, a lipstick-stained coffee cup, a sly question about my “honeymoon.”
I want to tell her the truth, but the words dissolve before I can even type them. My mother’s message is worse: three lines of perfect French, a congratulations laced with warning. I stare at my phone until the text blurs, then put it face down on the table and pretend not to care.
I try to read a magazine, but the words slide past my eyes without meaning. I check the time, check the windows, check the locked doors at the end of every corridor. There’s always someone standing guard.
Always a corridor I can’t enter, a garden I can’t reach. Any request—a walk, a car, a phone call—is routed quietly to Leon for approval. No one says it, but the rules are clear: this estate is a cage, no matter how pretty the bars.
He doesn’t come to find me. Not all morning, not through lunch, not as the hours tick by and the ache in my chest grows sharper.
I try to hate him for it. I try to count the ways I resent his control, his silence, the way the entire house bends to his rules.
I keep thinking about last night—about the way he touched me, not as a conqueror but as if he was learning me, mapping me, trying to remember every shiver and gasp for the rest of his life. The way he pulled me close afterward, held me so tight I could feel the beat of his heart, steady and unguarded.
I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t want him.
All day, my thoughts keep drifting back to the bed, the heat, the way his hands trembled when he reached for me in the dark. The gentleness under all that hunger. The feeling—terrifying and undeniable—of being chosen, even when I swore I hated him for it.
I’m still angry. Still trapped. Still uncertain of everything but the ache in my chest, the memory of his mouth, the impossible hope that maybe, beneath all this, there’s a way for me to belong, not just to this house, not just to him, but to myself.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. As I pace the marble halls, I realize I’m not just afraid anymore. I’m awake, and maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
***
The first week of marriage passes in a dream I can’t wake from. Hours slip by—too bright, too cold, every surface too polished to leave a mark. I move through the house like a shadow in someone else’s memory, footsteps echoing off marble that never warms. I try to stay busy. If I keep moving, maybe I won’t have to feel. Maybe I can outrun the ache in my chest.
I start by exploring, searching for corners I can claim as my own. There are endless corridors, rooms stuffed with heavy furniture and silk drapes, vases of white roses on every table. Some doors are locked. Some open onto rooms that feel haunted by lives I’ll never be part of: a music room, silent except for the dust on the piano keys; a library lined with books in half a dozen languages I barely read.
I pause at the shelves, fingers trailing over spines with names that mean nothing to me. There are marks in some of the margins—old, spidery handwriting, someone else’s secrets.
I wish, wildly, that I could go back to being anonymous, that nobody had ever taught me to read between the lines.
In one hallway, I stumble into what must have been a family room once. The walls are covered in photographs: Leon as a boy, gap-toothed and wild; Leon with a brother who looks nothing like him, both boys standing stiff in pressed shirts, their eyes wary. I spot a woman with Leon’s dark hair and stern mouth—his mother, maybe, or an aunt. In every photo, the family looks almost happy, but there’s a tightness to the smiles, a kind of formality that tells its own story.
Not mine, I think, staring at a snapshot of a birthday party, a cake with too many candles, Leon scowling at the camera. None of this is mine.
There’s a window at the end of the room, high and narrow, overlooking the gardens. The world beyond the glass is a tangle of hedges and fountains, bursts of late-blooming roses, paths winding away into shadow. I press my forehead to the cool pane, closing my eyes for a moment.
If I screamed, nobody would hear me from here. The realization is sharp, lonely—a reminder of how high the walls are, how far away the world feels now. For the first time in ages, tears prick behind my eyes. I bite my lip hard, refusing to give in. I’ve shed enough tears in this house already.
By afternoon, I’m restless and tired in equal measure, nerves frayed raw. I wander back to my suite, hoping for quiet, only to find Leon’s head of security waiting for me in the hall. He’s all crisp lines and impassive eyes, holding out a leather folder with my name embossed in gold.
“Your schedule, Mrs. Sharov,” he says, as if this is normal, as if I should be grateful.
I take the folder, my hands trembling. Inside, there’s a week mapped out in perfect, relentless detail: language tutors at nine, art lessons at eleven, fitness training, appointments with a stylist, lunch with Leon, etiquette lessons, yoga, afternoon tea.
Every minute accounted for, every activity “suggested” but non-negotiable. There’s even a note at the bottom.
Any changes, please consult Mr. Sharov.
