I’m supposed to be punishing her. Making her pay. Using her to hurt the Ashfords the way they hurt me. That’s the plan. That’s been the plan since the moment Konstantin proposed this arrangement.
But somewhere between watching her try those locked doors and seeing the fear in her eyes just now, something shifted. Something I don’t understand or want to examine too closely.
Because if I examine it, I’ll have to admit that watching her suffer doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels like torture.
And not the kind I intended.
I sink into my desk chair and do the one thing I swore I wouldn’t do. I pull up the security feed again and find her in the library.She’s still sitting in that window seat, but now she’s crying again. Silent tears streaming down her face, her whole body shaking with the force of sobs she’s trying to muffle.
This is victory. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Her misery. Her pain. Her understanding that she’s completely under my control, that I can make her life hell whenever I want.
So why do I feel like the world’s biggest piece of shit?
Why does watching her cry make me want to go back in there and—and what? Comfort her? Apologize? Tell her it’s going to be okay when we both know that’s a lie?
I look away from the monitor and focus my attention on the reports spread across my desk. Numbers and territories and business dealings that actually matter. Things I can control, unlike the mess I’ve made of this situation.
But even as I try to force my eyes to track across spreadsheets and contracts, my mind keeps going back to that moment in the library. The fear in her eyes. The way she tried to hide whatever’s wrong with her. The terror in her voice when she insisted it was just stress.
She’s hiding something. That much is obvious. But what? And why is she so afraid to tell me?
Maybe it really is just stress manifesting physically. The human body does strange things under extreme duress. I’ve seen men in this business develop ulcers, heart conditions, panic attacks—all from the constant pressure and fear. Maybe that’s all this is. Her body breaking down under the weight of everything I’ve put her through.
That's the goal, right? To break her?
But it doesn’t feel like victory. It feels hollow. Empty. Wrong in a way I can’t articulate.
Tomorrow. I’ll figure it out tomorrow at dinner. I’ll watch her, study her, maybe try to actually talk to her like she’s a human. Because one way or another, I need to understand what’s happening in my own house, and what’s happening with the woman who’s legally my wife, whether I like it or not.
I pull up the security feed one more time. Just to check and make sure she’s okay.
She’s still crying in the library, and I force myself to watch. To see what my revenge has wrought. To confront the reality of what I’ve done to her.
This is justice, I tell myself. This is what the Ashfords deserve.
But the words ring hollow even in my own head.
And the tightness in my chest doesn’t go away.
7
VERA
The dining room has become my personal hell.
Four nights. Four nights ofexcruciatingdinners sitting across from Dimitri at that massive table, the chandelier casting shadows that make everything look even more ominous. Four nights of meals I can barely choke down while he stares at me with those cold gray eyes and destroys what little composure I have left.
Tonight is no different.
I sit at one end of the table, he sits at the other, but it’s still too close and suffocating. The distance between us might as well be inches instead of feet. Anya serves the first course, a soup with cream and herbs that smells rich and heavy. My stomach turns just looking at it.
“Eat,” Dimitri commands, not looking up from his own bowl.
I pick up my spoon with clammy fingers and force myself to take a small sip. The soup is perfectly prepared, exactly the right temperature, and seasoned to perfection.
It tastes like shit.
