10. Sophia
TEN
SOPHIA
A s soon as I open my eyes, my focus is drawn to dozen lilac roses resting on the pillow where Maxim had slept last night. A grin forms on my lips—the first real smile that has dared to show itself since that night. It feels foreign but warm, as if some long-lost piece of myself is finally surfacing. I glance around, expecting to see him sitting somewhere, watching me like he has so many times before. But the room is empty, and the absence leaves a hollow ache in my chest.
Sitting up, I reach for the flowers, lifting them to examine them more closely. They’re beautiful. Dewdrops still cling to the petals, glistening in the morning light. I bring them to my nose and inhale their soft, sweet fragrance, letting it soothe me.
“Good morning, krasavitsa,” Maxim’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I glance toward the door frame, where he leans casually, a spatula in his hand. The sight of him—so utterly out of place yet perfectly at home—makes my heart stutter.
“Good morning,” I say stiffly, setting the flowers down on the bed. My body moves toward him before my mind has a chance to catch up. He opens his arms, and for a split second, I want to push him away—to scream at him for what happened, for being the reason I was taken, for all the chaos that followed.
But I don’t. Against my better judgment, I step into his embrace, anger and longing twisting inside me like a knot. His hands glide up and down my back in those slow, familiar strokes that should comfort me but only make me feel more conflicted. My face presses into his shirt, and I hate that the scent of him feels like home.
I’m furious—furious at him, at myself, at the whole damn situation. Yet, here I am, clinging to him when I should be shoving him away. I tell myself it’s just for a moment, just until I can pull myself together. But deep down, I know the war inside me isn’t ending anytime soon.
“I made breakfast,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a hint of pride.
I pull back slightly, tilting my head to look up at him. My eyebrows arch in disbelief.
“Never thought I’d see the day when Maxim Volkov, the head of the Russian mob, would be domesticated.”
The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement before he bends down to kiss the crown of my head.
He steps back, his hands firm but gentle on my shoulders, his blue eyes locked on mine. There’s a storm of emotions swirling there—love, regret, hope—and it nearly steals my breath.
“Moya lyubov.” He gives me a swift soft kiss on the corner of my lips, causing my flutters to form in my stomach. “I’ll cook every one of our meals and even do the laundry for the rest of our lives,” Maxim says, his voice a mix of playful and earnest, “if it means I get to see that beautiful smile painted on your lips every day.” My heart stirs at his words, but there’s a part of me that hesitates, wary of how much I want to believe him. Things between us are far from resolved. I’m still terrified, still broken, and the resentment I feel hasn’t faded. But right now, with his arms around me and his voice soft with promise, I want to cling to this fleeting happiness.
“I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Volkov,” I tease, a smile tugging at my lips. “Now, let’s see if your cooking lives up to the hype.”
Before I can take a step toward the kitchen, Maxim sweeps me off my feet, carrying me bridal-style down the hallway.
“Maxim,” I yelp, wrapping my arms around his neck for balance. “I can walk, you know.”
He stops abruptly, his expression shifting into something unreadable, almost serious. I stare back at him, silently pleading with my eyes. Please don’t ruin this moment. Whatever he’s about to say, I’m not ready to hear it.
He seems to get the hint and continues walking, gently setting me in a dining table chair before returning to the kitchen.
I watch him move around with practiced ease, grabbing utensils and plating food as if he has been cooking in this kitchen for years.
“You seem awfully comfortable in my kitchen,” I remark, unable to keep the note of teasing from my voice.
He pauses, his back to me, his shoulders stiffening. “I stayed here while you were gone,” he says, his voice low, a mix of anger and sorrow bleeding into his words. My heart twists at the rawness in his tone. He turns around, his shoulders tense, his hand dragging through his hair. “I was out of my fucking mind. Didn’t know what to do. So, I stayed, every night, hoping…” His voice catches, and he exhales sharply. “Hoping you’d walk through those doors. That it was all just a nightmare.” He kneels in front of me, his blue eyes clouded with pain. “You have no idea what I did to find you. Every lead, every damn path—it was always a dead end.” He presses his head against my shoulder, his voice breaking as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Tears fall from his eyes, and my heart plummets. I want to tell him it’s okay to erase the guilt carved into his face, but the words won’t come. It’s not okay, not yet. All I can do is place a hand on his head and let him stay there, holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
This whole time, I was so consumed with anger—so furious that he hadn’t saved me—that I never stopped to consider how hard he might have tried.
Does knowing change anything?
No . The anger and resentment I feel still burn, smoldering in the pit of my stomach. Forgiveness will take time. We’ll have to move slowly.
He rests his head against my shoulder, whispering, “I’m sorry” over and over again. The words are a mantra filled with desperation. I can’t bring myself to respond, to tell him it’s okay, because right now, it’s not.
All I can do is stroke his hair, offering a silent promise that I’ll try. He stays like this for a couple more minutes before going back to the kitchen and serving us.
The quiet during breakfast is a welcome reprieve. No words are needed as we sit together, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between us. It’s not perfect, but it’s peaceful—a fragile moment of normalcy I’m not ready to let go of. But that peace shatters when he tells me to change into gym clothes. Now, I’m standing in the middle of his massive home gym, staring at more workout equipment than any person could possibly need. My chest tightens. I wanted to learn to fight, but this…this feels like too much.
On the way here, I spoke to the physical therapist about learning to fight, half-expecting him to tell me it was a terrible idea. Instead, he said it shouldn’t cause any complications—as long as I don’t overdo it. Even with a full recovery, he insisted I take it slow, easing into it rather than throwing my body into something too intense too soon.
“Come on, Sophia. I’m waiting,” Maxim taunts from the center of the boxing ring, his voice carrying a sharp edge. He gestures for me to join him with a curl of his fingers, his confidence both infuriating and intimidating.
My shoulders slump as I take in the gym again: the rows of gleaming dumbbells, the ellipticals, and the enormous boxing ring dominating the space. What the hell did I get myself into? I wanted him to teach me to fight, not throw me into this. I glance back at him wrapping his hands in white bandages, his movements swift and practiced. He looks every bit the ruthless mob boss I know him to be.
“We don’t have all day,” he calls, his tone turning sharp. “Get in here now, or I’ll bring you in myself.”
I swallow hard, glancing again at the intimidating equipment. My feet stay rooted to the floor. I wanted to do this—I still do—but suddenly, the idea of sparring with Maxim in the middle of this fortress feels overwhelming. My shoulders slump. What did I get myself into?
I shake my head slowly, inching backward toward the door, my heart pounding harder with each step. This is not what I agreed to. Maxim has a way of turning even the simplest request into a spectacle, and I should’ve known better.
The door creaks open behind me, and I jump. A maid walks in silently, placing a couple of water bottles on a nearby table. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t hesitate, just slips back out the way she came. I barely have time to register her exit before Maxim’s growl cuts through the air.
“That’s it. You’re going into that ring, even if I have to drag you in myself.”
“Maxim—” I don’t even finish the sentence. His hands are around my waist, and before I can fight him off, I’m slung over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
“Let me down.” I scream, kicking and thrashing, but it’s useless. He strides into the ring and tosses me onto the mat with maddening ease.
The soft landing does nothing to cushion my anger. I sit up, my palms pressing into the mat for leverage as I rise to my feet. My heart is racing, and heat rushes to my face as I glare at him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout, charging toward him.
“That’s right, krasavitsa. Get mad,” he says, bouncing from foot to foot, his fists tapping together like a boxer waiting for his match.
For a moment, its absurdity catches me off guard. He looks ridiculous—like a gorilla hyped up on caffeine, waiting for someone to throw him a banana. A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, the sound loud and unexpected.
Maxim freezes mid-bounce, his head tilting to the side, studying me like he’s deciding his next move. A smirk plays on his lips, just for a second, and my stomach twists.
“Don’t,” I warn, taking a wary step back.
But he does.
He lunges at me lightning-fast, and I let out a startled squeal as I pivot and sprint for the ropes. My escape is hopeless, but I try anyway. His hand grabs my ankle, and before I can twist free, he pulls me backward.
The moment my head hits the mat, the world shifts.
I’m not in the gym anymore.
I’m back there.
The cold, rough cement scrapes against my skin as my hands drag me across the floor. I claw at the ground, desperate to find something—anything—to stop them. My nails catch on the cement, peeling away from my fingers one by one. The sting is sharp, brutal, and unrelenting.
I hear myself screaming and begging, but the only response is laughter, cruel and echoing.
I can’t breathe.
My chest tightens, the air around me growing heavier and heavier. My vision blurs, and all I can feel is the agony of being powerless again.
Please stop. Please.
A sob breaks from my throat, raw and jagged, as the memory tightens its hold.
Somewhere in the haze, I feel arms around me—warm, firm, solid. They’re rocking me gently, and a voice whispers close to my ear.
“Breathe, baby. Please, just breathe for me.”
But the voice doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real.
What if I didn’t escape?
What if this is all a lie—a trick my mind has created to shield me from the truth? What if I’m still there, locked in that room, broken and begging for mercy?
The thought tears through me, and panic surges like a tidal wave. I thrash against the arms holding me, my nails digging into flesh, fighting with everything I have.
“Let me go.” I scream, but my voice is drowned out by the pounding in my ears.
The arms don’t loosen. If anything, they hold me tighter. The voice—low and soothing—continues, but I can’t make out the words. They’re drowned beneath the roar of my fear, the echoes of my screams.
I claw harder, desperate to free myself, desperate to breathe.
And then, I stop.
The fight drains out of me all at once, leaving me limp and hollow. What’s the point? What’s the use?
The despair is suffocating, dark and inescapable.
It would be easier to end it. All this pain, all this fear—it could be over.
The thought slips in, cold and seductive, and I can’t fight it. What’s the point of living like this? Maybe they’ll do it for me. Maybe that’s where they’re taking me.
I almost hope they will.
The thought settles like a stone in my chest, pulling me under.
The sensation of ice-cold water crashing against my face drags me back from the suffocating abyss. I gasp, choking on my sobs, my lungs struggling to function as the dark grip of the memory begins to fade.
“Sophia, please,” Maxim’s voice pierces through the fog, raw and broken. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe for me.”
His hands rub slow, deliberate circles on my back, the warmth of his touch battling the icy numbness that has taken over. His desperation is tangible, cutting through the darkness suffocating me.
I try, dragging air into my lungs, but the breaths come short and shallow. Every inhale feels like swallowing shards of glass. My chest burns, the weight pressing down on me relentlessly. Tears stream down my face, hot and endless.
“You’re doing so good,” Maxim murmurs, his voice tight but steady. “That’s it. In and out. Just like that.”
Bit by bit, his words anchor me. My breaths start to even out, though they’re still shaky, and the tightness in my chest begins to release. The pounding in my ears fades, replaced by the sound of the water splashing around me and the steady rhythm of Maxim’s voice.
The haze clears enough for reality to set in.
I’m not there anymore. I escaped.
The realization hits like a jolt. My body shudders as my sobs lessen, though my limbs remain heavy, as if they belong to someone else. Opening my eyes, I blink through the blur of tears and take in my surroundings.
I’m in the bathtub, fully clothed, freezing water pouring over me. My teeth chatter and the cold gnaws at my skin, but I can’t bring myself to care.
All I want is for this moment to end.
Placing trembling hands on the rim of the tub, I try to push myself up. Every movement feels like trudging through quicksand. But before I can stand, Maxim growls low in his throat.
“No.” His voice is soft but firm as his hands find my shoulders, gently pushing me back down.
The instinct to fight surges within me, clawing its way to the surface. My pulse spikes as my body stiffens, poised to resist. But the exhaustion—bone-deep and merciless—overpowers the fight.
My shoulders sag, surrendering, and I sink back into the water, my head resting on a towel he folded for me. My eyes flutter shut as I succumb to the numbing cold, letting it dull everything I can’t face right now.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours before Maxim speaks again, his voice hesitant. “How are you feeling?”
The question lingers in the air, and for a moment, I don’t respond. How am I feeling?
This morning, I’d woken up hopeful—a fragile, tentative feeling I hadn’t dared embrace in months. But now? Now, my body feels like it’s betraying me, every muscle aching, every step a sharp reminder of how far I still have to go. My leg throbs faintly, a dull, persistent ache, and the tightness in my chest feels like a weight I can’t shake.
I feel like I’m being dragged backward—one step forward, ten brutal steps back. The physical discomfort mirrors the emotional toll, leaving me wondering if I’ll ever really move on or if this is just who I am now: stuck, hurting, and barely holding on.
“Fine,” I finally whisper, the lie, tasting bitter on my tongue.
Maxim’s sharp eyes search mine, and I brace for him to call me out, to tell me I’m full of shit.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. The gesture is so gentle and so full of emotion, it sends a fresh ache through my chest.
He lifts me from the tub without a word, cradling me in his arms as though I might shatter. I expect him to say something—maybe offer another plea or a string of reassurances—but all he does is carry me to the bedroom.
Setting me down on the bed, he hands me a folded pajama shirt, one of mine I’d left here months ago. His lips twitch into a small, sad smile, but his eyes betray the storm of emotions he’s holding back.
Then, without a word, he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I stand here, unmoving, clutching the shirt against my chest. My eyes stay fixed on the door, my mind racing. He left. He actually left.
The weight of his absence crashes over me like a tidal wave. Maxim—the man who hovers, tries to fix everything, andnever takes no for an answer—left me alone.
Is this his way of giving me space? Does he think it’s what I need?
I exhale a shaky but steady breath for the first time in what feels like hours. I glance down at the shirt in my hands, its soft fabric worn from use. It smells faintly of him—clean and familiar, a strange comfort amidst the chaos.
I slip it over my head, the warmth of dry clothes easing some of the cold that had seeped into my bones, but it does nothing to ease the knot in my chest.
Moving toward the bed, I sit on the edge, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I know Maxim means well, but I don’t know how to face him after what just happened.
If something as simple as him grabbing my leg sends me spiraling, how can I handle him touching me in other ways? What happens when he tries to hold me, kiss me, love me? The thought makes my stomach churn, shame twisting its sharp claws through me.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away.
That’s a problem for another day.
Right now, I need to focus on surviving, on breathing, on making it through the next moment.
One step at a time. One breath at a time.
But there’s one thing I know for sure.
I need help. Real help.
The thought terrifies me—opening myself up, admitting I can’t fix this on my own. But deep down, I know it’s the only way.
When I finally lie down, curling beneath the blankets, I let the day’s weight crush me. My body sinks into the mattress, and for the first time in hours, I let the exhaustion consume me.
As sleep drags me under, one final thought flickers in my mind.
I survived.
But surviving isn’t the same as living.