Chapter 7 Vera
VERA
The dining room has become my personal hell.
Four nights. Four nights of excruciating dinners sitting across from Dimitri at that massive table, the chandelier casting shadows that make everything look even more ominous.
Four nights of meals I can barely choke down while he stares at me with those cold gray eyes and destroys what little composure I have left.
Tonight is no different.
I sit at one end of the table, he sits at the other, but it’s still too close and suffocating. The distance between us might as well be inches instead of feet. Anya serves the first course, a soup with cream and herbs that smells rich and heavy. My stomach turns just looking at it.
“Eat,” Dimitri commands, not looking up from his own bowl.
I pick up my spoon with clammy fingers and force myself to take a small sip. The soup is perfectly prepared, exactly the right temperature, and seasoned to perfection.
It tastes like shit.
“Your father called today,” he says conversationally, like we’re discussing the weather. “He wanted to know how you’re settling in.”
My head snaps up so fast that my neck cracks. “You spoke to my father?” I ask, unable to believe it. My heart hammers. “What did you tell him?”
“That you’re adjusting beautifully to your new life.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “And that you’re learning your place. That you’re being very... obedient.”
Obedient. Like I’m a fucking dog. The word makes my skin crawl. “Can I talk to him? Please, I just want—”
“No.”
Just like that. Flat. Final. Like my request doesn’t even warrant consideration.
I set down my spoon carefully, fighting the urge to throw it at him. “You can’t keep me cut off from my family forever.”
“I can do whatever I want,” he says calmly, taking another spoonful of soup. I want to slam his face into the bowl. “You’re in my house and under my control. Those were the terms of the arrangement. Or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget,” I grit out. “How could I forget when you remind me every single day?”
His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s something dark and satisfied in them. “Good. I’d hate for you to get confused about your position here.”
This is how it goes. Every night. Him needling me, pushing me, trying to get a reaction. Trying to break me down piece by piece until there’s nothing left.
The first night, I tried to be civil and polite. I attempted small talk, asked about his day, and tried to find some neutral ground where we could exist together without hostility.
He shut that down immediately. “I’m not interested in playing house with you,” he'd said. “This isn’t a real marriage. You’re here as insurance. Nothing more.”
The second night, I tried silence. Just eating quietly, not engaging, hoping he’d leave me alone.
Instead, he spent the entire meal talking about Alexei. About what a good man his brother was. How kind, how caring, how he never deserved what happened to him. Each word was a knife, twisting deeper, reminding me that the man I loved is dead and his brother blames me for it.
“Your uncle pulled the trigger,” he'd said, his voice ice-cold. “Marcus Ashford executed my brother in cold blood. And you sit there, eating my food, living in my house, pretending you have any right to comfort.”
I tried to defend my family. “We didn’t know,” I argued. “I swear, my father didn’t order that. It was supposed to be a negotiation, not—”
“A negotiation?” He laughed, bitter and harsh. “Is that what you call an ambush? I didn’t realize murder is a code word for negotiations.”
“I call it a tragedy,” I shot back, my voice breaking. “I call it a terrible, horrible thing that never should have happened. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t even know about the meeting. So stop punishing me for something I had no part in!”
“You’re an Ashford,” he’d said, like that explained everything. “That’s all the part you need to play.”
Tonight, the third course arrives—chicken with lemon and herbs—and I can already feel the nausea building. I’ve learned to eat slowly, take tiny bites, and sip water constantly. Anything to keep the food down long enough to get through these dinners.
“You’re not eating,” Dimitri observes.
“I am eating,” I counter, taking a deliberate bite even though my stomach rebels.
“Barely.” He studies me with that unnerving intensity that makes me feel like a specimen under a microscope. “You’ve lost weight. Mrs. Kozlov mentioned you’re hardly touching breakfast either.”
Fucking rat. Of fucking course she’s reporting my every move to him.
“I’m eating enough,” I lie. “I'm just not used to such... rich food.”
Dimitri’s brows furrow. “The food is excellent. Mrs. Kozlov’s sister was a chef at—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “The food is fine. If you can’t appreciate it, that’s your failing, not the kitchen’s.”
Fuck him. I’m so fucking sick of his words.
“You’re right,” I say, setting down my fork with more force than necessary.
“The food is excellent. This entire house is excellent. Everything is perfect and expensive and beautiful. But you know what?” I scowl at him.
“I’d rather eat burnt toast in my mother’s kitchen than sit here being verbally eviscerated by you every night. ”
His gray eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“Careful?” I laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. “Why? What are you going to do? Lock me in my room? Cut off my phone? Make the staff treat me like garbage?” I mockingly gasp, covering my mouth. “Oh wait—you’ve already done all of that.”
His scowl deepens. “You’re here because your family—”
I wave him off dismissively. “Killed your brother. Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve mentioned it.
Repeatedly. Every single day. Every single meal.
Don’t you ever get sick of repeating the same thing?
” My hands are shaking now, but I don’t care.
I’m so tired. I’m so fucking exhausted from being afraid, from being guilty, from being punished for something I didn’t do.
“But you know what? The Volkov family isn’t exactly innocent either. ”
The temperature in the room drops about fifty degrees. “Excuse me?”
Ah, that affected him. “You heard me.” The words are coming now, tumbling out before I can stop them and the fear can lock them back inside.
“Your family has killed people too. Your organization has destroyed lives. Don’t pretend you’re some kind of saint being persecuted by evil Ashfords. You’re just as dirty as we are.”
He stands so abruptly his chair screeches against the wood floor, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls.
“Don’t I?” I stand too, meeting his glare even though my legs are shaking. “Your father ran this organization before you. Your uncle still does half the work. You think I don’t know what that means? You think I grew up in this world without understanding exactly what families like ours do?”
“Families like yours started this war—”
“And families like yours perpetuate it!” I’m yelling now, all the fear and anger and grief I’ve been holding back for weeks finally exploding.
“You could have walked away. You could have chosen peace or decided that revenge wasn’t worth more bloodshed.
But instead, you married me to punish my father.
You locked me in this house to make a point.
You make me miserable every single day because it makes you feel powerful! ”
“I make you miserable,” he says slowly, “because your family took everything from me.”
“So you decided to take everything from me in return?” Tears are streaming down my face now, hot and angry.
“Congratulations, Dimitri. Great job. You’ve successfully destroyed the life of someone who never did anything to you.
” I place my hands on my hips. “Does that make you feel better? Does it bring Alexei back?”
The moment his brother’s name leaves my lips, I know I’ve gone too far.
Dimitri moves around the table so fast I barely have time to react. He’s in my space, towering over me, and for a terrifying second, I think he might actually hurt me. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
“Don’t,” he growls, his voice barely above a whisper but somehow more frightening than if he’d shouted. “Don’t you dare say his name. You don’t get to talk about him. You don’t get to pretend you care about what I lost when your family is the reason he’s dead.”
“I do care,” I whisper back, and it’s the truth. “I cared about—”
“Get out.”
I jerk as if slapped. “What?”
“Get. Out.” Each word is bitten off, sharp as broken glass. “Go to your room. I don’t want to look at you right now.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I turn and practically run from the dining room, my vision blurred with tears, my whole body buzzing with adrenaline and fear and rage.
But as I reach the stairs, I hear something crash in the dining room. It’s the sound of glass shattering. A roar of pure fury that makes my blood run cold.
I’ve finally cracked his control.
And I’m not sure whether to feel triumphant or scared.
The fourth night is worse.
I almost don’t go down to dinner. I seriously consider just staying in my room, claiming illness, anything to avoid facing him again. But around six-thirty, Mrs. Kozlov appears at my door.
“Mr. Volkov expects you at dinner,” she says flatly. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
So here I am again, sitting at this fucking table, trying not to throw up the water I’ve been sipping all day. The nausea has been relentless today. It’s not just in the morning anymore, but waves of it throughout the afternoon, and it’s unpredictable and vicious.
This baby is trying to kill me.
I’m wearing a dark blue loose dress trying to hide how pale I am with carefully applied makeup. But I can see myself in the reflection of the wine glasses and I look awful. Hollowed out.