Silence.
A low hum escaped him, almost amused.
“Frankly,” I continued, gathering courage, “being on the run might suit me better than staying under this roof... than being treated like an object.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I am not Ruslan Baranov,” he said slowly.
“And I’ll say it one last time: in this lifetime, you cannot escape me. Remember the three red lines I drew the first night of our marriage. They define your place. Accept it. Carry it. Your husband will never love you—but you will remain mine.”
He moved then, a fluid, controlled motion.
“Good night, Elena.”
I watched him for a heartbeat longer before pushing the duvet down and turning onto my side to face him.
He lay perfectly still on his back, eyes closed, expression smooth and unreadable — as though he hadn’t just dismantled me with every word.
Silence wrapped around us again.
I stared up at the ceiling, tracing the faint ribbon of moonlight cutting across the beams.
My pulse gradually slowed, but the question refused to leave me.
He still hadn’t touched me.
Not once.
The realization settled in my chest like a stone.
On our wedding day, he had called me beautiful — even when I looked like I’d been dragged through hell.
When he ordered me to my knees, his cock had been rock-hard, straining desperately against his pants.
I had seen the hunger in his eyes.
Then he walked away.
To Violet.
And ever since... nothing.
No hands sliding over my skin. No rough kisses. No demands for my mouth or my body.
Just this icy, calculated distance.
The thought twisted inside me.
Was I really so repulsive to him?
Or was he deliberately withholding himself — punishing me by letting me feel the constant ache of being unwanted while he gave everything to her?
The thought burned.
I shifted closer on the bed.
The distance between us felt smaller than it should have.
