It swallowed my frame.
It smelled like sandalwood and safety and him.
Ruslan crossed the room and opened the door just enough to take the envelope from Petros.
His expression remained unreadable as he accepted it.
He shut the door again.
The envelope was thick.
Cream-colored.
No branding.
No company seal.
His gaze shifted to the front.
Blank.
He flipped it over.
The back contained elegant handwriting — deliberate and controlled.
To my little sister, Elena Jr.
My breath stopped.
My stomach dropped.
Ruslan’s jaw clenched.
He turned slowly and handed it to me without speaking.
The room suddenly felt colder.
My fingers trembled as I reached for it.
My hands trembled violently as I stared at the envelope.
The paper felt heavier than it should have.
Like it contained not just words — but consequences.
Ruslan noticed immediately.
He walked toward me without saying anything, took my shaking fingers in his, and guided me gently to the armchair by the window.
He sat down first.
Then he pulled me carefully onto his lap.
Not possessively.
Not controlling.
He positioned me there like something fragile — something that might break if handled too roughly.
