“You made foolish choices and now you’re living with the consequences.” His tone is ice. “That’s no one’s fault but your own.”
No apology. No regret. No acknowledgment that maybe—just maybe—a father should protect his daughter regardless of how she was conceived.
“You’re right,” I say, voice shaking. “I am living with the consequences. Of your choices as much as mine.”
I turn and walk out before he can respond. Before the tears threatening to spill can give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
The hallway is empty. My mother and siblings have retreated to other rooms, probably relieved to avoid the drama. Aleksandr is in the garden, visible through the windows, giving me space I didn’t ask for but apparently needed.
The pressure in my chest builds. Grief and rage and the horrible realization that I was never going to be enough for these people. Never going to be chosen. Never going to matter beyond my utility.
I make it to the garden before the tears start. Push through the door into cold air that bites at my skin, trying to breathe through the tightness in my throat.
Aleksandr is beside me before I take three steps.
“Elena?”
“Don’t.” I try to walk past him. “Just. I need a minute—”
He catches my wrist, gentle but firm. Pulls me to a stop.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.” My voice cracks on the last word.
He turns me to face him. One hand still holding my wrist, the other coming up to cup my jaw. Forcing me to meet those pale blue eyes that see too much.
“You’re not fine.”
“My father…” The words choke out. “He said I brought shame. That I’m reckless. That this is my fault.”
“What’s your fault?”
“Everything. The marriage. The situation. Being a burden instead of—” I can’t finish.
Aleksandr’s jaw tightens. “He said that to you?”
“He’s not wrong, is he?”
“He’s completely wrong.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone, wiping away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “You’re not a burden.”
“What?” I ask, desperate for an answer. “What am I to anyone? My family doesn’t want me. You only married me for heirs and strategy. I’m useful or I’m nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” More tears now, hot and unstoppable. “My father let me go without a fight. My family barely acknowledges I exist.” My voice breaks completely. “You needed a womb with acceptable genetics. That’s all I am. All I’ve ever been.”
His other hand comes up to frame my face, both palms warm against my skin. “Listen to me. Your family is wrong. Your father is wrong. You matter beyond what you provide. Beyond your utility.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I do.” The certainty in his voice makes me pause. “You think I’d shut down an entire city for breeding stock? Kill a man with my bare hands for strategy? Your family never protected you. Never chose you. I will. Always.”
The promise hits like a physical thing. Not because it’s romantic; it’s not. It’s possessive and intense and probably unhealthy.
It’s real. I can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he’s holding me like I might shatter.
“No one will ever abandon you again,” he says quietly. “That’s my promise. Whether you believe it or not.”
