I find a staircase and descend to the first floor, my hand trailing along the polished banister. More art on the walls (I’ve stopped trying to identify pieces, there are too many). More expensiveeverything. The foyer below is massive, with marble floors that look like they’ve been imported from Italy and a crystal chandelier that must be twenty feet across and probably weighs as much as a car. Morning light streams through tall windows, making everything gleam and sparkle like something out of a fairy tale.
A dark fairy tale. The kind where the princess gets locked in a tower and forgotten.
I follow the sound of voices (or rather, the clink of dishes and the smell of coffee) until I find the kitchen.
It’s enormous, of course. Everything in this house is enormous. There are professional-grade appliances, and multiple sub-Zero refrigerators (why?). A Wolf range with eight burners (Mrs. Garcia would have shat herself to see this). Granite countertops that stretch for miles. A massive kitchen island that can seat ten people. Copper pots hanging from a rack overhead, so shiny they look like they’ve never been used.
There are three people working—two younger women who look like they’re prepping food, and Mrs. Kozlov, the housekeeper from last night, who’s issuing instructions in rapid Russian. Her voice is sharp, brooking no argument.
They all stop talking when I enter.
The silence is immediate and uncomfortable. All three pairs of eyes turn to me, and I see the same expression on eachface. Suspicion. Hostility. Assessment. Like I’m an intruder who doesn’t belong here. An enemy who’s infiltrated their territory.
Which, I suppose, I am.
“I—” My voice comes out too quiet and uncertain. I sound like a child asking for permission. I clear my throat and try again, forcing myself to stand straighter. “I was wondering if I could get some breakfast?”
Mrs. Kozlov looks me up and down slowly, her expression glacial. Her hair is pulled back so tightly it must hurt, and not a single strand is out of place. Her mouth is set in a thin line that looks like it’s never smiled. She wears a crisp black uniform, perfectly pressed, and radiates the kind of authority that comes from decades of running a household with an iron fist.
“Mr. Volkov left for work early,” she says in heavily accented English. Each word is clipped, precise. “He won’t be back until late.”
That wasn’t what I asked, but okay. The message is clear. Your husband wants nothing to do with you.
“I... I see.” I swallow hard, trying to maintain some dignity. “Is there—could I just have some coffee? And maybe some toast?”
One of the younger women who looks barely out of her teens, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and frightened brown eyes starts to move toward the coffee maker, but Mrs. Kozlov snaps something at her in Russian. The girl freezes mid-step, her face going pale.
Mrs. Kozlov turns back to me, and I see not just hostility but contempt in her eyes like I’m something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to a small breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen. It’s clearly the staff eating area, not where the lady of the house would normally take her meals. A small table with a worn surface and mismatched chairs. Nothing like the formal dining spaces I’ve glimpsed elsewhere in the house. “I will bring something.”
She’s putting me in my place, making it clear that despite my new last name and the ring on my finger, I’m not welcome here. I’m not family. I’m not even a guest.
I’m the enemy.
I sit in the chair she indicated, feeling small and unwelcome and utterly alone. The two younger women return to their work, pointedly not looking at me. But I can feel their awareness of me, their discomfort. Mrs. Kozlov moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
Within minutes, she sets a plate in front of me.
Toast. Plain, slightly burnt around the edges. A small pat of butter that’s been sitting out too long, starting to melt. A cup of black coffee that looks like it’s been sitting in the pot for hours, a thin film on the surface.
This is deliberate. This is her making a statement.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, because what else can I say?
She doesn’t respond. She returns to whatever she was doing, her back to me, making it clear the conversation is over. I’m dismissed. Forgotten. Less important than whatever meal planning or inventory she’s working on.
I pick at the toast, forcing myself to take small bites even though my stomach is churning. The bread is dry and scratchy againstmy throat. The coffee is bitter and old, leaving an acidic taste on my tongue. But I drink it anyway because I need something to do with my hands and focus on something besides the crushing loneliness that’s pressing down on me.
The kitchen staff continues to ignore me. They speak to each other in rapid Russian, their voices low but animated. I don’t understand the words, but I understand the tone. They’re talking about me. Judging me. Making it clear that I’m not wanted here, and that I’m an intruder in their domain.
I catch fragments—”Ashford” said with venom, “Mr. Volkov” with reverence. One of them laughs, quickly stifled, and I don’t need to speak Russian to know they’re mocking me.
I’m an Ashford in a house full of Volkovs. The enemy living among them. The hostage bride who doesn’t belong. The girl whose family killed their beloved Alexei.
They hate me. All of them. And I can’t even blame them.
I manage three bites of toast before the nausea hits.
