I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles that are still adjusting to regular use. My body wears the evidence of last night: faint bruises on my hips where his fingers gripped, marks on my neck I’ll have to cover with makeup, the lingering soreness between my thighs that makes me hyperaware of every movement.
Two days married, and I already can’t remember what it felt like to sleep alone.
That should terrify me more than it does.
I shower in the en suite bathroom that’s bigger than my old apartment, using products that cost more than I used to spend on groceries. The hot water feels like a luxury I’m still not used to, even though Dimitri made it clear everything in this penthouse is mine now.
Everything except freedom.
When I emerge, there’s coffee waiting on the nightstand—black, no sugar, exactly how I take it. A note beside it in Dimitri’s precise handwriting.
Meeting until noon. Driver available if you need anything. D.
No “good morning.” Though I didn’t expect it, honestly.
I should be relieved by the distance. Should appreciate that he’s not treating this like some romantic fairy tale.
Instead, I feel oddly disappointed.
I dress in clothes from the closet that appeared fully stocked as if by magic. It’s all designer labels I recognize from magazines I used to flip through while waiting for coffee. Everything fits perfectly because Dimitri had measurements taken, had stylists consulted, had my entire wardrobe constructed without asking my opinion once.
Control disguised as generosity.
I choose fitted black pants and a silk blouse, professional enough for whatever today brings. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The woman staring back looks polished, expensive, like she belongs in this world of marble and money.
She looks like a Bratva wife.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
The penthouse is quiet when I venture out. There’s no staff immediately visible, though I know they’re here. I’ve learned to recognize the subtle signs of their presence. Fresh flowers that appear overnight. Meals that materialize without being requested. The way everything stays pristine despite being lived in.
I’m pouring a second cup of coffee when I hear voices from the hallway. Male voices, one raised in anger, the other pleading.
My body tenses instinctively. I should stay out of it. Whatever’s happening isn’t my business.
I walk toward the sound anyway.
The scene reveals itself as I round the corner—one of Dimitri’s men, someone I recognize from the wedding, has a younger man pressed against the wall. The kid can’t bemore than twenty, terror painted across his face, stammering apologies I can’t quite make out.
“You spilled coffee on Mr. Rudenko’s documents,” the guard growls. “Do you have any idea how stupid that is?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, it was an accident.”
The guard’s hand tightens around the kid’s throat, and I move before thinking.
“Let him go.”
Both men freeze and turn to look at me.
The guard’s expression shifts through several emotions. “Mrs. Rudenko. I’m handling this.”
“I can see what you’re handling. I said let him go.”
“This is a security matter.”
“This is a terrified employee being assaulted over spilled coffee. Let. Him. Go.”
The guard hesitates, clearly weighing his options. Then his hand drops, and the kid stumbles away, gasping.
