Chapter 7 – Jennie
I wake up to silence. To warmth. To satin sheets that don’t belong to me.
For a moment, I think maybe I dreamed everything—the black dahlia bouquet, the chapel filled with strangers, Adrian’s icy vow, You’re mine now.
But then I shift, and the heaviness of the dress clinging to my skin pulls me fully into reality.
I’m still in my wedding dress.
The velvet is wrinkled and clinging to my legs. My makeup is probably a mess. I sit up slowly, heart thudding as memories flicker behind my eyes—Adrian’s mouth on my neck, the terrifying intensity of his touch, the way I wanted to scream and melt at the same time.
No. I shove the thoughts away.
I push myself to my feet, strip the dress off like it’s on fire, and step into the bathroom.
The water is hot, stinging. Steam rises quickly, blurring the mirror and my thoughts with it. I stand under the spray, head bowed, letting the water drum against my scalp until I can breathe again.
But it doesn’t help.
Images from last night slip through the cracks—his hands, the rough way he gripped me, the way his voice dropped when he thrusted inside me.
God. What is happening to me?
I turn the water colder.
Why did I let him touch me? On the first night! When did I become so sex-driven?
Once I’m out, I wrap myself in a towel and walk back into the room. My luggage sits neatly by the wardrobe; someone must have brought it in last night.
I dig through it until I find a soft cotton dress—one of the only casual ones I packed—and pull it on.
Then I start searching. I tear through every corner of the bag.
No phone.
No laptop.
Nothing.
My heart slams against my ribs. I check the drawers, the nightstand, and under the bed.
Gone.
He took everything.
I rush to the door, fling it open—and freeze.
There are guards.
Two of them, suited and stone-faced, stand at opposite ends of the hallway. They glance at me but don’t move. They don’t speak. Just stand there. Watching.
I storm down the grand staircase, barefoot and furious, heart pounding with a cocktail of betrayal and helplessness. The house is too quiet, too polished. Every glossy surface mocks me.
And then I hear movement—from the dining room.
I follow the sound, my blood boiling. When I step in, I freeze for half a second.
Adrian is already there, walking in from the other side, a towel thrown over his shoulder, his hair still damp, water glistening along the carved lines of his chest. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but dark joggers that cling to his hips like sin. His knuckles are red, bruised, and bandaged again.
What the hell was he doing?
He stops when he sees me. His eyes rake over me slowly—my flushed cheeks, my heaving chest, the fury I’m not hiding.
“Good morning, kroshka,” he murmurs, voice low and too amused. “Did you sleep well in our bed?”
I hear the mockery in his voice, and an image of last night pops into my head again. Adrian pinning me to the bed, fucking me mercilessly from behind. Why did I let him touch me like that, for goodness’ sake?
His smirk widens as he lowers himself onto the dining table, and I can tell he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“You weren’t looking at me like this last night, kotenok. Let’s cut the games, shall we?”
That does it.
Without thinking, I grab the nearest porcelain plate from the table and hurl it at him with everything I’ve got. It flies across the room, slicing through the air—
—and he catches it.
Easily.
Like he knew it was coming.
He looks down at the plate in his hand, then back at me with a grin that makes my skin crawl.
“I like fire,” he says, setting the plate down without looking. “You’ll learn that about me soon. I know exactly how to tame it.”
I clench my fists, teeth gritted. “You stole my life. Locked me in a room like I’m nothing.”
“You’re not nothing, Jennie,” he says, shrugging. “You’re mine.”
“I am not a thing to be owned!” I shout, voice cracking.
He sighs, like I’m a child throwing tantrums. “I married you.”
“You’re a monster,” I spit, my voice shaking with rage. “You think because you forced a ring onto my finger, you have the right to trap me like this? You can’t keep me prisoner, Adrian. You have no right!”
He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he picks up a fork and starts eating as if I haven’t just screamed at him. Calm. Cold. Unbothered.
God, that infuriating calm.
His eyes flick up to mine as he chews, jaw working slowly, deliberately. Then he swallows and speaks, his voice low and rough.
“I have every right, kroshka. You wear my ring now. That makes you mine. And I don’t take what’s mine lightly.”
I feel sick.
He leans back in his chair, elbows resting wide, completely at ease, as if we’re talking about the weather and not my stolen freedom.
“Don’t forget,” he adds, his voice turning sharper, crueler, “this was a bargain. A trade. I could’ve sent your brother’s head in a box and saved myself the trouble. But I didn’t. I spared him.”
His green eyes cut into me like blades.
“You’re here because I let him live. And if you want to keep him that way, you’ll behave.”
My stomach twists.
He smirks and cuts another bite of food, dragging his fork through it. “Don’t look at me like I’m a gentleman. I’m not.”
“No,” I whisper. “You’re not.”
My voice cracks on the last word.
He hears it. Sees it. And still doesn’t care.
“Good,” he says without looking up. “Then we understand each other.”
I fold my arms, trembling, and glare at him across the table. “What about Logan?” I ask, voice tight. “You said you’d let him go. Did you?”
Adrian’s jaw shifts as he chews slowly, then sets down his fork with precision. His eyes meet mine—sharp, unreadable. “He’s been allowed to leave,” he says. “He’s out.”
My breath catches.
“I’ll bring you proof soon,” he adds casually. “You’ll talk to him yourself.”
I don’t know whether to believe him, but my chest aches with the sliver of hope. “Then give me my phone. I want to talk to him now.”
“No.” His voice is flat, final. “You’ll talk to him with my phone, when I’m ready for you to talk to him.”
“Really? Are you serious? I need my phone. Now!”
“You haven’t behaved yourself yet.”
My eyes narrow. “Behaved?”
He leans forward slightly, and his smile is wicked, lazy. “When you act like a good girl, you’ll get your phone.”
I nearly choke on air. “You’re—God, you’re disgusting. Do you hear yourself? You sound like—”
“I’d watch my mouth if I were you,” he cuts in smoothly, his voice low, taut with warning. “My patience is wearing very thin, moya zhena.”
His gaze is pure heat and danger.
My heart slams against my ribs. I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to claw this entire nightmare off my skin and run—but I can’t. Not with Logan’s life dangling by a thread that Adrian controls.
So I do the only thing I can do—I huff, spin on my heel, and storm out of the dining room. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I move fast, before the lump in my throat gives way to tears.
I’m not staying quiet. I’ll find a way out. I swear it.
One way or another—I’ll find a way.
I find myself in my bedroom and slam the door shut behind me. The sound echoes like a gunshot. I brace my palms against the door, forcing myself to breathe. One breath. Two. Three.
But it doesn’t help.
I feel trapped. Like the walls are closing in, pressing down on my ribs, stealing every last piece of control I have left. I pace, each step sharp and erratic, trying to walk the anger out of my bones.
It doesn’t leave.
I grab a book from my luggage—some cozy romance with a pastel cover that Violet gave me—and try to read. I make it two sentences before I realize I’m gripping the pages too hard, crumpling them. I throw it onto the chair.
Nothing works.
I cross to the window and pull back the sheer curtains. The sunlight is too bright. Mocking. Outside, the estate spreads out like something from a glossy magazine—expensive, perfect, cold. Guards posted like ornaments. Too much silence.
Too much control.
My eyes drop to the driveway just in time to see him—Adrian—speaking with one of his men near the garage. He’s half-dressed again, dark vest over bare arms, muscles flexing as he moves. Commanding. Dangerous. Calm.
He looks up.
I freeze, heart slamming into my ribs. I don’t know if he can see me through the window, but I don’t wait to find out. I yank the curtains closed and stumble back, my breathing unsteady.
God. I need to get out of here.
I need a plan.
***
I stay in my room the entire day.
I don’t eat. I don’t nap. I don’t even open the door when someone knocks softly with what I assume is lunch—or dinner. Maybe both. I just pace, sulk, and listen to the quiet creak of the mansion settling under its own weight.
By nightfall, the estate slips into a thick, eerie hush. I peek through the curtains and see the guards have rotated. A few dim lights flicker across the lawn, but the rest of the house feels asleep.
My heart hammers.
Now or never.
I slip on a hoodie and jeans, the softest shoes I own, and tiptoe out of my room like I’m still in my college apartment sneaking into the kitchen for midnight cookies. Only this isn’t cookies. This is desperation.
The hallway is darker than I expected, but I remember the turns. I mapped them all out in my head while stewing in my anger all day. Down one flight, then another, until the wallpaper turns to stone and the scent of aged wood and expensive wine grows heavy.
The cellar is exactly where I thought it would be—tucked beneath the east wing, behind a heavy door with an antique handle. I twist it slowly and slip inside, praying there’s no security camera or silent alarm.
Rows of bottles gleam in the low light. The air is cold and musty.
I scan the walls, ignoring the ridiculous thought that Adrian might keep a secret tunnel hidden behind a stack of merlot. But I’m desperate enough to believe anything right now.