Chapter 7
PENELOPE
Then I heard a creak.
I froze, my heart hammering, my ears straining.
The locked door.
Carefully, I tried the handle again—my palms slick with sweat, my breath catching. This time, impossibly, it gave way beneath my trembling hands.
The door swung open to reveal a corridor that seemed endless, marble floors gleaming under recessed lights.
The walls were lined with gold-framed portraits of grim men in black suits, their eyes following me like watchful sentinels, daring me to run.
I bolted. My bare feet slapped against the cold stone, every step echoing like a warning bell.
The corridor twisted into shadows, then opened to a grand staircase that spiraled downward, its carved banister alive with snarling wolves. Their wooden fangs bared as I passed.
I stumbled down, breath ragged, lungs aching from the remnants of the asthma attack.
At the bottom stretched a cavernous living room, dripping with decadence—a ceiling soaring toward heaven, chandeliers raining prisms across velvet furniture, a massive fireplace roaring like the gates of hell.
The exit.
My gaze locked on the towering double doors across the room, dark wood gleaming, brass handles polished like a promise of freedom. Adrenaline surged—I sprinted. My palms smacked the handles, yanking with all my strength.
Nothing.
The doors were locked tight, unmoving, as though mocking me. Panic clawed up my throat. I shoved harder, pulling until my arms shook, until my nails scraped the wood.
“Someone tell me this is a dream!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, ricocheting off marble and glass until it returned to me, hollow and mocking. “Is anyone there?”
Silence. Only the echo of my own desperation, the vast house swallowing my voice like it fed on fear.
My chest seized, the familiar warning of another attack clawing up my lungs, but this time my hand flew to my pocket and wrapped around the inhaler.
Relief. A weapon as small as hope. I didn’t use it yet—just the feel of it grounded me enough to keep moving.
I spun, my pulse hammering in my ears, and darted toward the next set of doors.
A dining hall yawned before me, absurd in its grandeur—an endless table draped in white linen, silver goblets winking like eyes in the dim light. The kind of table meant to seat kings, or demons.
“Hello?” My voice cracked as I shouted into the cavernous room. No answer, only my words dissolving into shadows.
I pushed on, through archways and hidden doors, stumbling into a library where shelves loomed like watchtowers, leather spines stacked with forgotten secrets.
Dust clung to the air, catching in my throat as I whispered, “Please...” Still nothing. Every knob I twisted was locked. Every door I shoved refused me, its metal cold and cruel against my palms.
I ran harder.
A servants’ corridor—locked.
A wine cellar—locked.
Even a side pantry, its hinges ancient and rusting—locked.
The house was alive, every exit mocking me, each denial feeding my panic.
Minutes stretched, warped, until I no longer knew how long I’d been running. My legs trembled, raw fire shooting through my calves.
Sweat slicked the silk of my wrap dress to my skin, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Finally, I collapsed into a smaller parlor, the velvet wallpaper pressing against my back as I slid down to the marble floor.
The cold bit through denim, grounding me, reminding me I wasn’t waking from some twisted nightmare. This was real.
My chest heaved.
I buried my face in my hands, rocking slightly as tears scorched my cheeks. “It’s my birthday,” I whispered to no one. “Nonna should be telling her stories... Mama should be cutting the cake. They’re waiting for me, and I’m not there.”
My throat tightened. Isabella’s face flashed in my mind—my mother. And Nonna, resilient but fragile with age. They’d think I’d abandoned them. They’d wonder why I never came home.
“Why?” My fists curled against the floor. “Why me?”
I tipped my head back, staring at the ornate ceiling above.
Was I really that stupid at fifteen? Promising him forever over lemonade and giggles—like a fool. Blind to the cruelty that would come, to how far he’d go just to force me to keep that promise.” My voice broke, ragged, the words scraping out of me.
The walls seemed to close in around me.
A shrill alarm split the silence, stabbing through my skull like a blade.
I jerked upright, my pulse detonating in my veins. My sneakers squealed against polished marble as I sprinted toward the sound, panic pounding in every step.
The noise led me to the living room, where a sleek digital clock blinked furiously on a glass table. Its red numbers glowed with quiet menace: 11:00 PM. And beneath, in tiny letters, the words that ripped the air from my lungs:
Lake Como, Italy.
My stomach hollowed, fury clawing up my throat like fire.
“Lake Como?” I hissed, pacing in a frenzy, my hands clenching and unclenching. “No... no, no, it can’t be.”
But it was.
I was in Italy. Torn from New York. On my wedding day. On my birthday. On the day my life was buried alive.
The rage came fast and wild.
I snatched the clock, its metal casing icy against my palms, and hurled it to the ground.
The glass exploded with a sharp crack, red digits dying mid-blink. “Fuck you, Dmitri!” I screamed, the sound ripping out of me raw, scraping my throat.
I kicked the shattered pieces across the marble, sparks of satisfaction swallowed by despair.
I spun, my gaze latching onto a vase perched delicately on a gilded stand. A perfect piece of porcelain, mocking me. I seized it and smashed it against the floor, watching it splinter into a thousand glittering fragments. Shards of beauty turned to ruin—like me.
One by one, I destroyed what I could.
My chest heaved as I spat the words into the silence, “I’m going crazy!”
The walls threw my rage back at me, echo after echo, until I almost believed them.
Dmitri could kill me for wrecking his precious things. Or worse—enjoy punishing me.
My fury bled out into exhaustion. My knees buckled, and I collapsed into the velvet couch.
My heart thundered like it wanted to break free, my hands shaking as the adrenaline ebbed.
Tears burned their way down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable.
The world dimmed around the edges.
My eyes drifted shut despite my fight, my body surrendering to the exhaustion.
But the reprieve was brief.
A sound snapped me awake—a creak, subtle but deliberate.
My eyes flew open and my body went rigid.
The front door.
It swung inward with slow, inevitable grace.
And there he was.
Dmitri Volkov.
He stepped inside, his presence a storm rolling into the room. Even dressed in black casuals, no suit, no armor, he carried the same suffocating weight.
My heart lurched painfully.
He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, the top few buttons teasing a flash of bronzed skin. His tailored trousers clung perfectly, his dark hair slightly mussed, as though impatient fingers had tangled in it.
But it wasn’t the shirt, or the hair, or even the way he owned the space with his sheer presence that froze me.
It was the hickey.
Dark red. Raw. Unmistakable.
Staining his neck like a brand.
My gaze dropped lower—to his hand. He was sliding his platinum wedding band back onto his finger, the etched wolf’s head catching the chandelier’s glow.
My breath hitched.
Rage and betrayal crashed over me in a tidal wave so violent it left me trembling.
He had shackled me with vows I never wanted, dragged me to Italy—and now, on our wedding night, he’d gone to another woman?
The hypocrisy burned like acid.
He couldn’t even keep his own vows?
But beneath the fury, a sharp stab of something else pierced me. Something uglier. Jealousy.
Why did it matter? Why did my stomach twist at the thought of his mouth on someone else’s skin? I hated him. Didn’t I?
“Who is she?” My voice cracked like a whip through the air.
My fists curled at my sides as I forced myself to meet his gaze.
He didn’t stop moving at first, striding toward a side room with infuriating calm, as if I were nothing more than background noise.
Then—he paused. His back to me. A slow, deliberate turn.
His icy eyes found me, and amusement glinted in their depths—cruel.
“Seraphina,” he said, his voice velvet over blades. “Slim. Graceful. Desired. Everything you’ll never be.”
The words landed like daggers, slicing through every defense I’d ever built.
My throat tightened, my heart splintering.
I’d always carried my curves with a quiet pride, armor against a world that tried to shame me.
But under his scorn, I felt heavy. Wrong. Unworthy.
My cheeks burned hot, a toxic cocktail of anger and shame flooding me.
“If plus-size women repel you,” I spat, voice shaking, “why the hell did you marry me?”
Dmitri’s smirk deepened, a cruel crescent that made my blood run cold.
His gaze dragged over me—slow, consuming, filled with that twisted cocktail of obsession and hatred that only he could wield.
“I married you,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence suffocating, “because you promised.”
His voice was a venomous purr, intimacy and cruelty entwined. “And don’t you dare play the innocent, Penelope.”
He leaned in, his breath brushing my ear, his words scorching.
“You’re here to pay for your sins. And your family’s.”
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t breathe,
“What sins?” I shot back, my voice rising. “I’ve done nothing wrong! If my family betrayed you, then punish them—not me!”
Dmitri’s steps echoed across the marble, long, predatory, eating the space between us.
His voice fell to a razor-sharp whisper. “This estate is surrounded by lakes and rivers. You won’t get far. Try to escape, Penelope...” His icy eyes locked onto mine. “...and you’ll drown.”
His hand lifted toward my face, fingers poised to claim my jaw, and I flinched back as if his touch carried fire.