Nikola shows me to the master bedroom without ceremony. “Your things have been moved here,” he says, gesturing to the walk-in closet where my clothes hang next to his like we’ve been sharing space for years.
The bedroom is enormous, dominated by a king-sized bed that suddenly feels like the most dangerous piece of furniture in the world. Two nightstands, two reading lamps, two sides clearly defined. His and hers.
“I’ll take the couch tonight,” he says. “Give you time to adjust.”
I want to tell him that time won’t fix this, that adjustment implies acceptance I’m not ready to give. Instead, I nod and thank him for his consideration.
He leaves me alone with my new reflection; Mrs. Sharov in her white dress, standing in a bedroom that’s supposed to be half hers now. The woman in the mirror looks composed, elegant, exactly the kind of wife a man like Nikola should have.
She also looks utterly lost.
Chapter Six - Nikola
The sound of the elevator doors closing behind my brothers echoes through the penthouse like a funeral bell. Final. Irreversible. The space feels different now, charged with something I can’t quite name. Heavier. More significant.
I pour myself three fingers of whiskey and lean against the kitchen counter, watching the city lights flicker to life beyond the bulletproof glass. From a strategic standpoint, today was flawless. The marriage is documented, witnessed, legally binding.
Elara is now under the full protection of the Sharov name, which means Hale will have to recalculate every move he makesagainst her. The network will know she’s mine by morning, and that knowledge will close doors he relies on.
On paper, this is one of my cleanest operations. A problem identified, analyzed, and solved with minimal collateral damage and maximum efficiency. I should feel satisfied. Accomplished. Ready to move to the next crisis requiring my attention.
Instead, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff I didn’t see coming.
The whiskey burns, but it doesn’t settle the restless energy thrumming under my skin. Having Elara here, legally bound to me, should feel like control. Like victory. Instead, it feels like I’ve lit a fuse on something explosive and I’m not sure how long I have before it detonates.
I set down the glass and head toward the master bedroom. We need to establish ground rules, boundaries, expectations for how this arrangement will function day-to-day. The sooner we get the practical details sorted, the sooner we can both settle into our new normal.
I expect tension when I enter the room. What I find is something infinitely more dangerous.
Elara sits on the edge of our bed—my bed, technically, but the possessive pronoun feels wrong now—still wearing her wedding dress.
The white silk pools around her like spilled moonlight, and she hasn’t moved to touch the zipper or remove the delicate pins holding her hair in place. She’s frozen there, spine rigid, hands folded carefully in her lap like a porcelain doll posed for display.
The sight of her hits me like a physical blow. She’s beautiful—has always been beautiful—but there’s somethingabout seeing her in white, in this room, that makes my chest tight and my control feel suddenly fragile. She looks like a bride.Mybride. The woman who promised to honor our arrangement just hours ago, sitting alone in the bedroom we’re supposed to share.
She also looks terrified.
Not of violence—I’ve seen that kind of fear before, and this isn’t it. This is the particular terror of a woman who doesn’t know what’s expected of her, what lines might be crossed without warning, what the man who now legally owns her might demand as his right.
The thought makes something cold and furious unfurl in my chest. She thinks I brought her here to claim her. To take what I want because I can.
I move toward the walk-in closet, intending to change out of my suit and give her space to process the day. I make it three steps before she flinches backward, nearly falling off the bed in her haste to put distance between us.
“Don’t.” The word cracks out of her like a whip, sharp and desperate. “This marriage is in name only. You said that. You promised.”
I stop immediately, hands visible, body language open and non-threatening. “I’m going to change clothes, Elara. Nothing else.”
She scrambles further back on the bed, white silk tangling around her legs. “I don’t—I can’t—this isn’t what I agreed to.” Her voice climbs higher with each word, panic bleeding through the careful composure she’s maintained all day. “I hate you. I hate this. I hate that you’ve trapped me here and now you think you can just—”
“Breathe,” I interrupt quietly. “I’m not moving closer. I’m not touching you. Breathe.”
She gulps air like she’s drowning, ample chest rising and falling too quickly. I’ve seen this before—the particular panic that comes with powerlessness, with being completely at someone else’s mercy whether they choose to show it or not. The knowledge that legal marriage gives me rights she can’t revoke, access she can’t deny, choices she can’t override.
I hate that she’s afraid of me. I hate even more that her fear isn’t irrational.
Moving slowly, deliberately, I approach the bed with my hands where she can see them. Every gesture is calculated to telegraph restraint, control, safety. I stop just close enough that she can hear me clearly but far enough away that she doesn’t feel cornered.
“Look at me, Elara.”
