“Your father called today,” he says conversationally, like we’re discussing the weather. “He wanted to know how you’re settling in.”
My head snaps up so fast that my neck cracks. “You spoke to my father?” I ask, unable to believe it. My heart hammers. “What did you tell him?”
“That you’re adjusting beautifully to your new life.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “And that you’re learning your place. That you’re being very... obedient.”
Obedient. Like I’m a fucking dog. The word makes my skin crawl. “Can I talk to him? Please, I just want?—”
“No.”
Just like that. Flat. Final. Like my request doesn’t even warrant consideration.
I set down my spoon carefully, fighting the urge to throw it at him. “You can’t keep me cut off from my family forever.”
“I can do whatever I want,” he says calmly, taking another spoonful of soup. I want to slam his face into the bowl. “You’re inmyhouse and undermycontrol. Those were the terms of the arrangement. Or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget,” I grit out. “How could I forget when you remind me every single day?”
His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s something dark and satisfied in them. “Good. I’d hate for you to get confused about your position here.”
This is how it goes. Every night. Him needling me, pushing me, trying to get a reaction. Trying to break me down piece by piece until there’s nothing left.
The first night, I tried to be civil and polite. I attempted small talk, asked about his day, and tried to find some neutral ground where we could exist together without hostility.
He shut that down immediately. “I’m not interested in playing house with you,” he'd said. “This isn’t a real marriage. You’re here as insurance. Nothing more.”
The second night, I tried silence. Just eating quietly, not engaging, hoping he’d leave me alone.
Instead, he spent the entire meal talking about Alexei. About what a good man his brother was. How kind, how caring, how he never deserved what happened to him. Each word was a knife, twisting deeper, reminding me that the man I loved is dead and his brother blames me for it.
“Your uncle pulled the trigger,” he'd said, his voice ice-cold. “Marcus Ashford executed my brother in cold blood. And you sit there, eating my food, living in my house, pretending you have any right to comfort.”
I tried to defend my family. “We didn’t know,” I argued. “I swear, my father didn’t order that. It was supposed to be a negotiation, not?—”
“Anegotiation?” He laughed, bitter and harsh. “Is that what you call an ambush? I didn’t realize murder is a code word for negotiations.”
“I call it a tragedy,” I shot back, my voice breaking. “I call it a terrible, horrible thing that never should have happened. ButI didn’t do it. I didn’t even know about the meeting. So stop punishing me for something I had no part in!”
“You’re an Ashford,” he’d said, like that explained everything. “That’s all the part you need to play.”
Tonight, the third course arrives—chicken with lemon and herbs—and I can already feel the nausea building. I’ve learned to eat slowly, take tiny bites, and sip water constantly. Anything to keep the food down long enough to get through these dinners.
“You’re not eating,” Dimitri observes.
“Iameating,” I counter, taking a deliberate bite even though my stomach rebels.
“Barely.” He studies me with that unnerving intensity that makes me feel like a specimen under a microscope. “You’ve lost weight. Mrs. Kozlov mentioned you’re hardly touching breakfast either.”
Fucking rat. Of fucking course she’s reporting my every move to him.
“I’m eating enough,” I lie. “I'm just not used to such... rich food.”
Dimitri’s brows furrow. “The food is excellent. Mrs. Kozlov’s sister was a chef at—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “The food is fine. If you can’t appreciate it, that’s your failing, not the kitchen’s.”
Fuckhim. I’m so fucking sick of his words.
“You’re right,” I say, setting down my fork with more force than necessary. “The food is excellent. This entire house is excellent. Everything is perfect and expensive and beautiful. But you know what?” I scowl at him. “I’d rather eat burnt toast in my mother’skitchen than sit here being verbally eviscerated by you every night.”
His gray eyes narrow. “Careful.”
