Painfully beautiful.
When she hears the door open, she glances back. The second she sees it’s me, her body goes rigid. She starts packing her things immediately, as if my presence contaminates the air she’s in.
She tries to walk past me.
I block her path.
Her glare is sharper than a knife.
“If you hate me so much,” I say, voice low and biting, “tell me why you didn’t stop your father from forcing you to marry me.”
She looks up sharply, eyes flashing. “Because no one stops men like him.”
I open my mouth, but she steps closer—close enough that I feel her breath on my chin.
“You really think someone like my father,” she says, voice trembling with contained fury, “or any man in his circle, goes around asking the women in his house for permission before making decisions that will alter their lives?”
She shakes her head.
There’s no dramatics in her tone, no anger—just a tired honesty that feels like it’s peeling my skin back.
“Like every other rich heiress born with a silver spoon,” she whispers, “I never had agency. Or freedom. I was never a daughter. I was a shiny jewel he could polish and display. Something valuable…but never someone.”
There’s no victory in her voice.
No arrogance.
Just quiet, crushing exhaustion—like she’s finally admitting it to someone for the first time.
I study her face, really study it, and for the first time, I see past the rumors, the socialite veneer, the gilded cage I assumed she thrived in. She’s not spoiled. She’s not untouchable. She’s trapped—boxed in by a name she didn’t choose, by a family that treats her like a jewel in a display case.
She tries to step past me, and I catch her hand—not hard, not in anger, but firm enough to stop her.
“Vivian,” I say, my voice lower, softer than she expects. “You’re not running from me. Not today.”
Her hand tenses in mine. She jerks slightly but doesn’t pull free. Her chest rises and falls, fire in her eyes undimmed, but beneath it…there’s a flicker. Hesitation. Vulnerability.
“Dimitri, let me go!” she spits out, sharp, though I hear the tremor.
“That’s not happening,” I say evenly, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “I know. Your father—your family—they boxed you in long before I existed. It’s up to you to change the narrative.”
She studies me, jaw tight, hand still in mine. Tension hums between us, electric, dangerous, but there’s something else, a current we’re not ready to name.
“I never asked for this,” she murmurs, voice quiet, raw.
“I know,” I say. “And neither did I. But we’re here. Together. For now.”
She tries to pull her hand from mine again, but I tighten my grip—not enough to hurt her, just enough to make sure she feels the heat of my palm, the certainty in it.
Her eyes flash up to mine again, defiant, challenging.
“You think I don’t see what you are?” I say, my voice dropping, rougher than I intend. “You fight me because you think hate will protect you. But I see the truth, Vivian. You wantsomething real. Something that isn’t another man telling you who to be. You want to feel something that isn’t control.”
Her breath catches—tiny, barely there, but I hear it.
She stops struggling.
For the first time since I met her, she actually looks at me. Not with contempt. Not with fear.
