Page 40 of The Russian's Bought Bride

Even thinking about his name feels strange in my mind, like it’s too sharp compared to Liam, which now feels embarrassingly fake in hindsight. Like I should have noticed sooner somehow.

Maybe the signs were there all along, but maybe I just wanted someone to believe in while my world felt like it was collapsing.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I roll onto my side and force the thought away before it can drag me back under again.

I can’t keep doing this…lying here, rotting in grief and confusion while my thoughts eat me alive. Regardless of what I’ve lost, it’s only getting worse the longer I sit in my despair.

Eventually, I push myself upright and wander toward the ensuite bathroom. To get myself right again, I splash cold water against my face before staring at my reflection.

I look awful. My hair is tangled, my skin has paled, and my eyes are shadowed from a lack of sleep.

Gripping the edge of the sink harder, I pull in a deep breath and force myself to get back on track.

Today, I just want to feel like myself again, even if it’s only for an hour. Even if I can only manage the bare minimum before working myself into more. That’s what finally pushes me into motion.

Back home, before all of this, yoga had always been a way for me to reset. Whenever I had a rough day at work, or the weight of Dad’s appointments got the better of me, I’d drag my mat into the living room and force myself to breathe through it.

So I do that now, as well as I can.

There’s no mat in the guest room, but the carpet is soft enough, so I use it as my starting point.

At first, my body protests the usual movements immediately. My muscles pull tight during the stretches, still weaker than they should be, but gradually, movement starts to loosen the tension sitting under my skin.

I focus on breathing rather than thinking, allowing myself to follow the rhythms that feel the most natural, like I’m finally listening to my body again.

For the first time in days, my mind quiets.

It isn’t a complete fix, but it’s enough that I don’t feel like I’m drowning inside myself, and even for a little while, I forget about Nikolai or what he represents. I forget about the scammers and all the pain I’ve been carrying ever since.

By the time I’m finished, warmth has returned to my limbs, my pulse is steady rather than frantic, and while the numbness hasn’t vanished, there’s a big enough crack for a semblance of hope to come through.

Enough that when I wander downstairs after having a shower, I let myself take in the kitchen and the potential it holds. Without warning, another impulse hits me.

The space is far bigger than one I’ve ever used before, and every inch of stainless steel gleams perfectly under the light. From what I’ve gathered, Nikolai doesn’t use it often; at least, he doesn’t make the most involved meals.

The kitchen looks untouched, and that alone springs the idea into my mind.

I should bake.

It was something I used to do constantly. My dad used to call it stress baking, since anytime I was upset, the kitchen would end up smelling like cinnamon and vanilla or melted chocolate. Without fail, I’d put my energy into it just to give myself a mental break, and now more than ever, I need that.

I don’t even realize how much I missed it until I start moving through the room.

The kitchen is absurdly beautiful with all dark stone countertops and expensive appliances I’ve only ever dreamed of using.

I hesitate at first, wondering if I’m even allowed to touch anything before immediately getting annoyed with myself. If Nikolai plans on keeping me here, then he had better get used to me staying occupied somehow.

Still, I move carefully, opening cabinets until I find flour and sugar, then butter, vanilla extract, and baking powder.

Before long, the familiarity settles over me slowly as I work, measuring, mixing, and portioning out the right amounts.

It feels automatic in the best possible way, and I continue as the sound of the mixer hums softly through the room while afternoon light spills through the windows, warming the countertops and my back while I work. For a while, I lose myself in it completely.

With no hospitals, Bratva, or death to consume me. Just butter softening beneath my fingers and the smell of vanilla blooming into the air.

It feels dangerously close to normal, and by the time I slide the tray into the oven, I actually feel lighter.

Not happy, necessarily. I don’t think I know how to be happy right now, but feeling human again is exponentially better than rotting away in a room I never asked to be in.