Chapter 3

3

I don’t come out of my room all day. I just lie in bed and wallow in my own self-pity, shedding a tear of mourning for every shattered dream and broken promise throughout my pathetic twenty-two year existence. Then, when I’ve got nothing left in me, I finally pull myself out of bed, strap on my metaphorical big-girl panties, and forge ahead with readying myself for my first meal as Mrs. Volkov .

The en-suite bathroom connected to my bedroom is incredible. It’s wall-to-wall Calcutta marble with dual sinks, a giant soaker tub, and an enormous shower that could easily fit six people, if group showers were your sort of thing. It feels more like a day spa than a personal bathroom, and I spend entirely too long sampling the various soaps and body oils, washing and preening and plucking until I feel like a new woman.

I don’t do it for him . I do it for me ; as a symbolic way of washing away the scourge of my old life and starting anew. This marriage doesn’t have to be a death sentence. I’m a resilient girl; surely I can make the best of this fucked-up situation I’ve found myself in. Women in this world have to find a way to harness their own power and carve out a place for themselves, so damnit, that’s what I intend to do.

I don’t wear red. If I start out by complying with Roman’s demands, he’ll think he can walk all over me. I decide I need to assert my independence and show him I won’t be so easily cowed, so I thumb through the hangers in my closet full of expensive new clothes– all in my size– until I find a tasteful black silk gown with delicately thin straps, a high neck, and a plunging back. The dress fits me like a glove, clinging to the curves of my hip bones and accentuating my flat stomach.

I’ve starved myself for this body, so it’s my right to show it off. My father monitored every morsel of food I put in my mouth so I’d stay rail-thin and pleasing to the eye of potential suitors. God forbid I actually possess womanly curves . He molded me to his own ideal of beauty, and I had no choice in the matter. I was always just chattel to him, an object to be traded to the highest bidder… so I may as well let Roman see exactly what he’s bought.

The grotesque burn scar on my arm is on full display, and I sweep my long blonde hair up into a chignon, securing it with a beautiful pearl clip I find in the makeup vanity. I also find plenty of makeup and beauty products in there, everything brand new, just like the clothes. This room is stocked with all a girl could want or need, which tells me that this little arrangement was likely in the works for far longer than my father led me to suspect. It should come as no surprise that I’m the last to know, but the realization still sits bitter on my tongue.

Clara instructed me not to wear too much makeup, so naturally, I cake it on thick, taking time to create a dark smoky eye effect. I top off the look with a nude lip, tossing the tubes of red lipstick into the wastebasket as a last ‘fuck you’ to my new husband, then make my way downstairs ten minutes late, hoping I’ll find him half as agitated as he made me with his tardiness at lunch earlier.

When I reach the bottom of the staircase, however, I realize that I have no idea where the dining room is even located. I spend another ten minutes wandering around the dark, winding halls of the first floor before I finally stumble upon it, finding the formal dining room to be just as large and opulent as everything else in this pompous mansion from hell. Dark, arabesque patterned wallpaper lines the windowless walls, and the long dining table in the middle of the room is surrounded by twelve black velvet-upholstered chairs, flames flickering ominously in the candelabra centerpiece stretching across it.

Roman isn’t in the room when I arrive, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s already eaten and left. But then Clara rushes in, giving me a scowl of disapproval and hustling me over to a seat beside the head of the table, furthest from the door. She pulls the chair out for me, directing me to take a seat before scurrying back out of the room.

I sit there alone for the next ten minutes, the smells wafting in from the open doorway making my mouth water and my stomach rumble in protest. Then, right as the large grandfather clock in the hall chimes eight o’clock, my husband finally graces me with his presence.

He strolls into the dining room like he doesn’t have a care in the world, his posture tall and his stride confident. It isn’t until he pulls out his chair at the head of the table and takes his seat that he even glances my way, his glare of displeasure instantly obliterating my self-confidence.

He purses his lips, jaw ticking in agitation as he takes in my appearance. At first, I think the look of disgust on his face is in response to the hideous scar on my arm, but he only gives it a passing glance, focusing instead on my hair, makeup, and attire with an assessing eye. “Did Clara fail to instruct you on how to dress for dinner?” he asks, his voice a low, eerie monotone.

I square my shoulders, sitting up a little straighter. “I prefer black,” I say, all false bravado as I lift a hand to gesture around the room. “From the looks of this place, I figured you do, too.”

Clara enters the room carrying two plates of food, but Roman’s eyes don’t leave mine. He keeps me pinned beneath his intense green-eyed stare, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he speaks to his housekeeper while still looking at me. “Clara, if you’re unable to effectively instruct Mrs. Volkov on appropriate dinner attire, then perhaps your services here are no longer needed.”

Clara pales, stopping in her tracks and darting her wide-eyed gaze between me and my new husband. “I…”

“She told me,” I cut in, for some reason feeling like I need to defend this woman that I barely even know. “I just decided to do my own thing. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Roman stares at me for a moment longer, then heaves an exasperated sigh, picking up his black cloth napkin and unfurling it as he glances over at Clara. “Can you see to it that my wife understands what’s expected of her going forward?”

My fists clench atop the table. I hate how he’s speaking about me like I’m not even in the room; like I’m a child who needs to be reminded of her place. Rage bubbles in my veins, crawling beneath my skin, but out of fear for Roman carrying out his threat to fire the housekeeper, I stay silent. Clara and I may not be on friendly terms yet, but as the sole staff member in the house, she’s my only potential ally here in my new home. I need to keep her close.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Volkov,” Clara replies, casting a wary glance in my direction.

Roman swings his gaze over to me, narrowing his eyes. “Is your cooperation going to be a problem, Mrs. Volkov?”

My fists tighten at the way he accentuates ‘Missus’ to declare his ownership, fingernails digging crescents into my palms.

“No,” I whisper.

“Excellent,” he snaps, whipping his head back around to face his housekeeper. “Then Clara, you can leave the plates here and head on home for the evening,” he says, pressing a finger to the table in command. “It seems my new wife and I could use some time alone.”

I cringe as Clara rushes to obey, sliding both plates of food onto the table in front of Roman and scurrying out of the room. As soon as she closes the doors behind her, sealing us in the dining room alone, Roman turns his attention back on me, tapping his thigh.

“Come here, pet.”

His condescending tone sets my teeth on edge. “I’m not your pet, I’m your wife ,” I grit out.

He waves a hand dismissively, green eyes sparkling. “Semantics.” He taps his thigh again in command. “ Now , wife. You’ll find I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

I want to scream at him, to tell him that I don’t like to be kept waiting either, but I doubt he considered that when he showed up at lunch twenty minutes late or strolled in here thirty minutes after I was told to arrive. It’s becoming very clear that this is Roman Volkov’s world and now I’m just living in it. I’d be smart to pick and choose my battles if I’m to have any prayer of survival.

Begrudgingly, I push my chair back from the table, easing to my feet.

He leans back in his own chair, swiping a hand over his chin as he takes in the sight of me in the gown he bought, eyes touring my body as I step closer. My cheeks burn in humiliation as I step around his spread knees and lower myself down to sit on his thigh, Roman’s hand landing on the small of my back to steady me. My breath catches in my throat at the sensation of his callused fingers grazing my bare spine, and I mentally curse myself for choosing the backless dress over one of the other options.

With his other hand, he reaches out and drags one of the plates closer to him, picking up his fork to spear a roasted baby carrot. Then he lifts it, bringing it to my mouth.

“I don’t need you to feed me,” I grumble in protest.

Roman angles his head, meeting my eyes. “But it would please me.” He moves the fork closer to my mouth. “Don’t you want to please me?”

I narrow my eyes on him. “Do you want an honest answer?”

He lowers the fork with a sigh, resting it on the edge of the plate. The silver clatters against the china, the carrot still secured in the tines of the fork. “Sure, let’s be honest with one another, shall we?” he muses, the low tenor of his voice making the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Fine,” I declare with a newfound surge of confidence, swiveling on his lap to face him and meeting his harsh glare with one of my own. “ No , Roman, I don’t want to please you. I don’t want you to feed me like a pet, and I don’t want to be told what to wear or how to act. This marriage wasn’t my choice, but we’re both stuck in it now, so we might as well get this all out in the open so we can figure out how to move forward amicably.”

A wave of relief washes over me as soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, like a weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying has finally been lifted. My whole life, I’ve been too afraid to stand up to my father, constantly allowing myself to be stepped on by the only man in my life. But that’s not how it has to be anymore. I can be braver. Stronger .

My shot of courage is laughably short-lived.

Before I even realize what’s happening, Roman abruptly shoots to his feet, the arm banded around my waist taking me with him. He swipes the plates aside and bends me over the table in their place, slamming my front against the hard wooden surface. Wrenching one of my arms behind my back, he fists my hair tightly in his opposite hand, using his grip on it to press my cheek against the table and pinning me down with his weight against my back.

“Let’s get one thing straight, wife ,” he growls, his face inches from mine as he hovers over me like a savage beast. “Your sole purpose from here on out is to please me . If I tell you to sit, you’ll sit. If I want to feed you, you’ll swallow every goddamn bite I put in your mouth. And if I want to fuck you, you’ll bend over, spread your pretty thighs, and take my cock like a good wife. Do you understand me, pet , or am I not making myself clear enough?” He punctuates that last assertion by grinding his hips forward roughly, the hard ridge of his cock rutting against my backside.

“Yes!” I whimper, the fingers of my free hand scrabbling for purchase against the tabletop as I pant for breath. His body is crushingly heavy on top of mine, squeezing all the air from my lungs.

“Yes what ?” he snarls as he jerks my head back, tugging the strands of my hair so hard that tears spring to my eyes.

“Yes, sir!” I choke, assuming that’s what he’s seeking.

He abruptly releases me, rising to his full height and taking a step backwards to smooth the front of his suit jacket and straighten his cuffs. “Good girl.”

My body sags against the surface of the table, a tear sliding from the corner of my eye and across the bridge of my nose.

“Get up.”

This time, I don’t hesitate to do as I’m told. I press my palms to the wood, pushing up from the table to stand on shaky legs. The pearl clip that was holding my chignon in place hangs pathetically from the back of my head, my coiffed hairstyle ruined by Roman’s rough hands.

He doesn’t seem fazed by my disheveled appearance. He sinks down into his chair again, tapping his thigh in command.

I sit.

“Now,” he says, reaching out for one of the plates and sliding it back over in front of him. He picks up the fork, the carrot he tried to feed me earlier still held securely in its tines. “Eat.”

He raises it to my lips, and I open them obediently, taking the food into my mouth. As I chew, Roman reaches up to remove the clip from my hair with his other hand, combing his fingers through the long blonde strands and stroking them down my back. I suppress a shiver of disgust as I swallow past the lump in my throat, only for him to bring the fork to my mouth again, feeding me a piece of potato.

Even though I’m starving, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it. Bite after bite, with humiliation burning through me, I eat his food and endure his gentle stroking of my hair like the pampered pet he wants me to be. All the while, the rage burning inside me only grows, every morsel tasting like ash in my mouth.

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.