The room gradually lightens as dawn breaks outside the windows. The gauzy curtains do little to block the morning sun, and eventually, I force myself to sit up. My body aches in unfamiliar places—evidence of last night written in soreness and tenderness. My inner thighs. The places where Dimitri’s fingers dug into my hips. The slight rawness between my legs.
Physical proof of what happened. Evidence I can’t erase or pretend away.
I need to shower and wash away the scent of him that still clings to my skin, the evidence of last night. I need to get rid of the shame that feels like it’s coating every inch of me.
The bathroom is obscenely luxurious with marble and gold fixtures and a shower that could fit six people. I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it and step under the spray. The water pounds against my skin, almost painful, but I welcome it. I scrub myself raw, using the soaps and shampoos that were waiting for me, trying to erase every trace of what happened.
But no amount of scrubbing can wash away the memories. Or the guilt. Or the fear of what comes next.
Because this wasn’t a one-time thing, no matter what Dimitri said. I’m his wife now. And wives have... expectations. Duties. Will he come to my bed again? Will he expect me to submit to him whenever he wants? The thought makes my stomach turn even as unwanted heat flickers low in my belly.
I don’t know how long I stand under that water. It’s long enough that my skin turns pink and the bathroom fills with steam and the water begins to run lukewarm. Finally, I force myself out, wrapping myself in a fluffy, cream towel.
When I return to the bedroom, I find clothes laid out on the bed.
Not my clothes. I don’t own clothes like these. They’re clearly designer and expensive. The soft cashmere sweater in dove gray, dark skinny jeans, delicate lace undergarments still in their packaging. Even the socks are luxury brand, impossibly soft.
Someone came in while I was showering and the thought makes my skin crawl. I was naked and vulnerable just feet away, and someone (Mrs. Kozlov probably, with her cold eyes and disapproving mouth) came in and left these things for me.
Like I’m a doll to be dressed. A possession to be maintained.
I want to refuse them and put on my wedding dress again just to spite whoever chose these clothes. I could be the newest Miss Havisham, going through the rest of my life in a ratty wedding dress.
But that’s childish, and besides, I have nothing else to wear. Everything I owned is back at my father’s house, in my old bedroom with the pale blue walls and photographs of a life that no longer exists. I don’t even know if I’ll ever get those things back, or if I’ll ever see that room again.
So I dress in the stranger’s clothes, pulling on the soft, expensive fabrics that feel wrong against my skin. They’re too nice and perfect, like they belong to someone else’s life. The jeans fit perfectly, hugging my hips and legs like they were made specifically for me. The sweater is soft, the kind of luxury I’ve only experienced a few times in my life. Even the underwear is expensive, which is ridiculous because what’s thepointof expensive underwear?
Someone measured me. Someone knew my exact sizes. The thought makes me feel violated in a way I can’t quite articulate.
When I’m dressed and my hair is combed out (there’s even a hairdryer and styling products in the bathroom, expensive brands I recognize from department stores, everything I could possibly need), I finally work up the courage to leave the bedroom.
The hallway outside is long and oppressive. The carpet is thick enough to muffle my footsteps in a beautiful deep burgundy. The walls are painted a warm cream, but there’s nothing warm about this place. Expensive art lines the walls (original paintings, not prints). I recognize a few artists from the gallery openings my mother used to drag me to. Each piece probably costs six figures. A Monet. What looks like an early Picasso. A landscape that might be a Cézanne.
Everything screams wealth. Power. Control. And cold taste that has nothing to do with love or appreciation and everything to do with showing off assets.
I try the door closest to mine. Locked.
The heavy brass handle doesn’t budge, no matter how hard I turn it. I move to the next one. Also locked. The third. Locked.
My heart starts to pound. I move faster, trying door after door down the long hallway. Locked. Locked. Locked. Some kind of storage? Guest rooms? I have no idea, but the message is clear. I’m not allowed in these spaces. I’m confined to specific areas. Controlled.
The fourth door finally opens, revealing a library that takes my breath away despite my rising panic.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line three walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that look like they’ve never been read. The spines are too pristine and perfect. These aren’t books that havebeen loved and dog-eared and returned to again and again. They’re decorations. Status symbols. Probably first editions, sitting here unread.
It’s unfathomable. Books are meant to beloved.
There’s a reading nook by the window with a velvet armchair in deep green and a small mahogany table. More expensive art on the walls and I’m pretty sure I spot what might be a Rembrandt sketch. A massive desk in the corner looks antique but is probably worth more than my parents’ house. Everything is perfectly arranged, perfectly maintained, and perfectly soulless.
It’s beautiful. Impersonal. Like a stage set of what a library should look like rather than an actual space where someone reads.
I move on, my anxiety building with each step. More doors and most are locked. The ones that open reveal sitting rooms decorated in various color schemes—one in blues and silvers, one in burgundy and gold. A music room with a grand piano so glossy I can see my reflection in it. The piano is a Steinway, probably worth a quarter of a million dollars, and I’d bet anything no one has played it in years. A study with built-in bookshelves and another massive desk.
All of them are decorated expensively and tastefully. All of them feel utterly devoid of warmth or personality. No family photos. No personal touches. No signs that real people live here, love here, exist here as anything other than occupants of expensive space.
This isn’t a home or a fortress or even a prison. It’s a museum. Or a mausoleum. A shrine to wealth and power that has nothing to do with actually living.
The thought makes me shiver despite the perfect climate control.
