Chapter Eleven - Hannah
The knock on the door is loud and sharp, pulling me out of a restless sleep. My body stiffens as I sit up, my heart already racing. The past twenty-four hours have been a blur of fear, anger, and exhaustion, and now, dread twists in my stomach.
The door opens before I can respond, and Andrei steps inside, his expression as stoic as ever.
“Get up,” he says flatly. “Makar wants to see you.”
My throat tightens, and I glance at the locked window before swinging my legs off the bed. Running is pointless; I learned that the hard way.
“Fine,” I mutter, my voice hoarse.
Andrei waits silently as I pull on the sweater draped over the chair, the fabric offering little comfort against the chill that has settled deep in my bones. He leads me down the long hallways of the mansion, every step echoing ominously.
When we reach Makar’s office, Andrei opens the door and motions for me to enter. My stomach churns as I step inside, the sight of Makar behind the massive desk filling me with equal parts anger and unease.
He looks up from a document, his piercing blue eyes locking with mine. He sets the paper down deliberately, his movements calm, controlled.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of him.
“I’ll stand,” I reply, my voice sharper than I intend.
His eyebrow arches slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studies me.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, his tone cool and detached.
“I can’t imagine it’s for a friendly chat,” I snap.
A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “You’re right. This isn’t a chat. It’s a decision. One that’s already been made.”
My pulse quickens, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “What decision?”
“You and I,” he begins, his tone deliberate, “are getting married.”
The words hit me like a slap, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to respond.
“What?” I finally choke out, my voice rising. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “This isn’t up for debate.”
“Debate?” I exclaim, my anger flaring. “You can’t force me into this! This is insane!”
His eyes narrow, the faint amusement vanishing from his expression. “You’re carrying my child,” he says coldly. “That makes you my responsibility. In my world, my child doesn’t grow up a bastard.”
“That’s not your choice to make!” I shout, my voice shaking.
“It is,” he counters, his tone unyielding. “It’s final.”
I glare at him, my breath coming in short, angry bursts. “I won’t do it. You can’t make me.”
Makar rises from his chair slowly, his imposing frame casting a shadow over me as he steps around the desk.
“I can make you,” he says quietly, his voice like steel. “I will. Let me make something clear, Hannah. If you don’t comply, your situation will only get worse.”
“What does that even mean?” I snap, though my voice trembles.
“It means you’ll lose whatever small freedoms I’m willing to give you,” he says, his gaze piercing. “Right now, you have the chance to move about the mansion, to have a life outside of these walls—within limits. Defy me, and those privileges disappear. Completely.”
“You’re treating me like a prisoner,” I say, my voice breaking.
“No,” he replies, his tone softening just a fraction. “I’m treating you like someone who doesn’t understand the stakes.”
I stare at him, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a physical force.
“This isn’t a negotiation, Hannah,” he continues, his voice firm but calm. “This is reality. You will marry me. You will be protected, provided for, and watched. That’s non-negotiable.”
I swallow hard, my nails digging into my palms as I fight the urge to scream. “What about my life, what I want?”
“What you want doesn’t matter anymore,” he says bluntly. “Not now.”
The words cut deep, and I turn away, blinking back tears. “I hate you,” I whisper.
He steps closer, his voice low. “I can’t make you like me, and I don’t care to. Understand this: you’re mine now. You and the child.”
I don’t respond, my chest tight with anger and despair.
“Go back to your room,” he orders, his tone final. “Think it over. Don’t mistake this for a choice, Hannah. There is no choice.”
Andrei appears in the doorway as if on cue, his expression impassive. He doesn’t say a word as he leads me out of the office, the door closing behind us with a soft but definitive click.
The silence between Andrei and me is suffocating as he escorts me back to my room. His footsteps are steady, unhurried, while mine falter, my mind spinning with the weight of what just happened in Makar’s office.
Married. To him.
The very idea is absurd, horrifying, and I can’t stop the wave of helpless anger that rises in my chest. My pace slows, and Andrei glances back, his expression impassive.
“Keep moving,” he says, his voice sharp and devoid of sympathy.
I stop in the middle of the hallway, my arms crossing over my chest. “Why are you doing this?” I demand, my voice shaking but louder now.
Andrei sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like I’m an inconvenience. “It’s not my call,” he replies coolly.
“That’s not what I’m asking,” I snap. “You work for him, fine, but you’re still a person. Do you really not care about what he’s doing?”
His eyes harden, his lips pressing into a thin line. “No,” he says flatly. “I don’t care.”
The bluntness of his response takes the air from my lungs.
“You’re serious,” I whisper, disbelief coloring my tone. “You don’t care that he’s forcing me into this, that I have no choice?”
Andrei shrugs, his posture relaxed but his gaze cold. “Why would I care? Makar’s my boss. My loyalty is to him, not you. Whatever happens to you is none of my concern.”
“You’re a monster, just like him,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His smirk is faint, humorless. “Think what you want, girl. It doesn’t change anything. This is how it is.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, leaving me reeling as we continue toward my room. When we reach the door, Andrei opens it and steps aside, motioning for me to enter.
“Get some rest,” he says, his tone edged with mockery. “You’ll need it.”
“For what?” I ask bitterly, though I already know the answer.
“The wedding,” he replies, his smirk deepening. “Tomorrow.”
The door closes behind me, the lock clicking into place with finality. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands as the weight of everything crashes down on me.
I’m trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
***
The next morning, I wake to the sound of footsteps and low voices outside the door. It swings open, and two women enter, their faces unfamiliar but professional.
“Miss Fox,” one of them says, her tone brisk. “We’re here to prepare you for the ceremony.”
“What?” I blink at her, still groggy.
“For the wedding,” she clarifies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“I’m not getting married,” I say firmly, though my voice lacks conviction.
The second woman exchanges a glance with the first before stepping forward. “You are,” she says, her voice gentler but no less certain. “It’s already been decided.”
I stand, backing away from them as panic grips me. “I don’t want this. You can’t just—”
“We’re only here to help,” the first woman interrupts, her tone neutral. “This will go much smoother if you cooperate.”
I stare at them, my breath coming in short gasps. The walls of the room feel like they’re closing in, the reality of my situation pressing down on me with unbearable weight.
They guide me—no, force me—into the adjoining bathroom, where an array of toiletries and luxurious bath products are laid out. The room smells of lavender and citrus, scents that would normally feel soothing but now make my stomach churn.
I don’t fight as they draw a bath, the warm water swirling with fragrant oils. My limbs feel heavy, my mind numb as they help me undress and lower me into the tub.
The women work efficiently, washing and scrubbing as though I’m some kind of doll to be polished and prepared. I let them, my body limp and unresponsive, my thoughts a haze of anger and dread.
When they’re done, they wrap me in a thick towel and lead me back into the bedroom. A white dress is laid out on the bed, simple but elegant, the fabric shimmering faintly in the light.
“I won’t wear it,” I say weakly, though even I don’t believe the words.
The first woman doesn’t respond, her hands already working to dry my hair. The second begins preparing the dress, smoothing out wrinkles and adjusting the delicate lace detailing.
As they dress me, my reflection in the mirror catches my eye. I barely recognize the girl staring back. Her face is pale, her eyes hollow, but her hair gleams, and the dress fits like it was made for her.
For me.
Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I refuse to let them see me cry.
The women work swiftly, their hands moving with practiced precision as they tailor the dress to fit me perfectly. I stand stiffly in the center of the room, arms outstretched slightly, while they pin and stitch, adjusting the fabric against my skin.
The dress is undeniably beautiful, but it’s nothing like what I would have chosen for myself. The material is a soft, luxurious satin in a creamy shade of white, fitted to skim my curves before flaring out slightly at the hips.
The neckline is daring, plunging just enough to hint at sensuality without crossing into overt territory, while the lace sleeves cling delicately to my arms, ending just below the wrists.
It’s elegant. Classy. Sultry.
It’s everything I’m not.
The woman kneeling at my feet, adjusting the hem, hums softly as she works. “This fabric is exquisite,” she says, glancing up with a smile. “Mr. Sharov has excellent taste.”
I say nothing, my jaw clenched as I focus on the far wall, trying to ignore the weight of the dress and the situation.
The other woman, working on the back of the gown, chimes in. “It’s rare these days to see a proper wedding,” she says, her tone light and conversational. “Such an occasion to celebrate. You must be so excited.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. My hands curl into fists at my sides, the anger and helplessness bubbling beneath the surface threatening to spill over.
“She looks nervous,” the woman at my feet adds, misinterpreting my silence. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s natural to feel jittery before the big day.”
My lips part, a biting retort on the tip of my tongue, but I snap my mouth shut, knowing it’s useless. These women don’t understand. They think this is normal. That this is my choice.
The absurdity of it stings worse than the sharp prick of a pin that grazes my side.
“Sorry!” the seamstress says quickly, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Just a slip. I’ll be more careful.”
I force a tight smile, the motion making my face ache. “It’s fine,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
The minutes drag on, each one more excruciating than the last, until finally, the women step back to admire their work.
“There,” the first one says, clapping her hands together with satisfaction. “You look stunning.”
I glance at my reflection in the full-length mirror, and the girl staring back looks nothing like me. The dress fits perfectly, hugging and flowing in all the right places, the delicate lace shimmering faintly in the light.
Her eyes—my eyes—are hollow, her expression tight and unyielding.
“She’s perfect,” the other woman agrees, gathering her tools.
They begin packing up their things, chatting softly between themselves as they leave the room. Neither of them notices the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.
A moment later, the door opens again, and the housemaid steps inside, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She’s older, her face kind but lined with the weight of years, her eyes soft as they take me in.
“Oh, child,” she says, her voice gentle.
The dam breaks, and I cover my face with my hands as the tears spill over. I feel her approach, the soft rustle of her skirt, and then her hands are on my shoulders, guiding me to sit on the edge of the bed.
She kneels in front of me, her hands resting lightly on mine. “Let it out,” she murmurs. “You’ve been holding it in too long.”
Her words undo me, and the sobs come, wracking my body as I cry into my hands.
“I can’t do this,” I manage between gasps. “I don’t want this.”
Vera squeezes my hands gently, her voice steady. “I know, dear. I know.”
Her understanding feels like a lifeline, and I cling to it, my tears slowly subsiding. She retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into my hands, her movements careful and deliberate.
I wipe at my face, my hands trembling. “Why is this happening to me?”
Vera hesitates, her expression tinged with sadness. “Mr. Sharov is… not a man who changes his mind easily. He does what he believes is necessary.”
“It’s not necessary,” I say bitterly, clutching the handkerchief in my lap. “It’s cruel.”
Vera doesn’t argue, but her silence speaks volumes.
She stands, smoothing her skirt before turning to the vanity and retrieving a glass of water. She hands it to me, her eyes kind. “Drink, child. You need your strength.”
I take the glass reluctantly, sipping the cool water as Vera moves to adjust the hem of the dress where it pools around my feet. Her presence is calming, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my mind.
“You’re stronger than you think,” she says softly, her voice laced with quiet conviction. “You’ll get through this.”
I want to believe her, but the weight of the dress, the weight of everything, feels like too much to bear.
She squeezes my hand one last time before stepping back, her gaze warm but steady. “I’ll be back to help you when it’s time,” she says. “For now, rest.”
Rest. The word feels like an impossibility, but I nod anyway, watching as Vera leaves the room.
Alone again, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, the tears drying on my cheeks.
The girl in the dress is trapped. No one is coming to save her.
***
I turn away from the mirror, unable to meet the eyes of the woman staring back at me. Sinking onto the chaise lounge near the window, I let out a slow breath, my fingers curling into the fabric of the skirt. The soft material is cool beneath my touch, a stark contrast to the heat building in my chest.
How did it come to this? A few months ago, I was living my life, working a job I hated but surviving. Now I’m here, in this gilded room, about to marry a man I barely know and who sees me as nothing more than an obligation.
The thought makes my throat tighten, and I press my palms against my thighs, trying to steady my breathing.
A knock at the door pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. Before I can answer, Vera steps inside, her expression calm and composed.
“The makeup artist is here,” she says gently, her voice soothing in the stillness of the room.
I glance up at her, my stomach twisting. “Do I have to?”
Vera’s gaze softens, and she steps closer, folding her hands in front of her. “You’d better do as Mr. Sharov says,” she replies, her tone kind but firm. “It’s easier that way.”
I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. “Easier for who? Him?”
“For you,” Vera says softly, meeting my eyes. “Fighting him will only make things harder.”
Her words settle heavily on my shoulders, but I nod, rising reluctantly from the chaise lounge. The dress drags against the floor as I follow her to the adjoining room, where the makeup artist waits.
The artist greets me with a professional smile, gesturing for me to sit in the chair in front of a wide vanity. The surface is cluttered with brushes, powders, and palettes, each neatly arranged as if for a performance.
I lower myself into the chair, stiff and unyielding, as the artist begins to work. She doesn’t ask me what I want or how I’d like to look. Instead, she moves with quick, confident strokes, as though she already knows.
“This will suit you perfectly,” she says, her tone upbeat as she blends dark, smoky shadows onto my eyelids.
“Will it?” I ask, glancing at her through the mirror.
She smiles, clearly not hearing the bitterness in my voice. “It’s exactly what Mr. Sharov requested.”
My stomach churns. “He requested it?”
She nods, dabbing concealer beneath my eyes. “Oh yes. He wanted something dramatic, elegant. Smoky eyes, a neutral lip—nothing too bright.”
I press my lips together, swallowing down the sharp retort rising in my throat. Of course, he made the decision for me. He’s made all the decisions since this nightmare began.
The brush strokes against my skin feel heavier now, each movement a reminder of how little control I have. When the artist reaches for a pale nude lipstick, I can’t help but speak up.
“Do you have anything brighter? Maybe a red or a pink?”
She hesitates, glancing at me in the mirror. “This is what Mr. Sharov specified,” she says carefully, her hands resuming their work.
I sigh, sinking further into the chair as she finishes. When she steps back, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.
The smoky eyeshadow is dark and intense, giving my face a cold, almost harsh look. The neutral lipstick washes me out, stripping away any warmth or personality. It’s striking, sure, but it doesn’t feel like me.
“What do you think?” the artist asks, tilting her head as she studies me.
I hesitate, the words tangling in my throat. What do I think? That I look like someone else entirely? That this image feels more like a mask than a reflection?
“It’s fine,” I say finally, my voice flat.
The artist doesn’t press further. She offers a polite smile, packing up her tools with practiced efficiency.
Vera steps into the room as the artist leaves, her gaze sweeping over me. For a moment, she says nothing, her expression unreadable.
“You look lovely,” she says eventually, though her tone lacks the usual enthusiasm of a genuine compliment.
“Do I?” I ask, my voice tinged with sarcasm. “I look like someone else.”
Vera hesitates, moving to stand beside me. “I know this isn’t easy,” she says gently. “But sometimes, doing what’s expected makes things… simpler.”
I turn to face her, my jaw tightening. “Simpler for him, maybe. Not for me.”
Her face softens, and she places a hand on my shoulder, her touch light but steady. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re feeling,” she says. “But I can tell you this—strength comes in many forms. Sometimes, it’s in standing your ground. Other times, it’s in choosing when to bend.”
Her words settle into my thoughts, and I glance back at my reflection. The woman staring back at me is polished and flawless, but she feels like a stranger.
“Do you really think this will get easier?” I ask quietly.
Vera’s hand drops to her side, and she takes a step back. “That depends on you,” she says softly. “And on him.”
The answer isn’t comforting, but it’s honest. I nod, rising slowly from the chair. The dress swishes around me as I move, its weight grounding me in this surreal reality.
“Thank you,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m thanking her for.
Vera offers a faint smile, her gaze kind. “You’re welcome, dear.”
Vera lingers by the door, her hand resting lightly on the frame. She doesn’t leave, her sharp gaze flicking back to me with an almost maternal concern.
“You’re angry,” she says quietly.
I scoff, shaking my head as I turn back to the mirror. “Of course I’m angry. Wouldn’t you be?”
Vera steps closer again, her soft-soled shoes barely making a sound against the carpet. “I would,” she admits. “Anger, if left alone, tends to burn out the wrong things.”
I narrow my eyes at her reflection. “What am I supposed to do with it, then? Swallow it down? Smile and nod and let him pull all the strings?”
“Not exactly,” she says, her voice calm but resolute. “You can let it drive you, but only if you steer it in the right direction.”
I laugh bitterly, turning to face her fully. “And where exactly is the ‘right direction’ in all of this? I’m being forced into a marriage I never wanted. What direction could possibly lead to anything better?”
Vera meets my gaze, unflinching. “Forward,” she says simply. “Through this. You think Mr. Sharov controls everything, but the truth is, there are ways to bend even the most unyielding people.”
Her words catch me off guard, my anger faltering just enough for curiosity to slip in. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that people like him respect strength,” she says, her expression softening. “They don’t understand it at first when it comes in a form they don’t expect, but they learn to recognize it. If you hold on to what makes you who you are—your dignity, your fire—he’ll see it.”
I cross my arms, skeptical. “You think he’ll care? That he’ll change?”
“People don’t change easily,” Vera concedes. “They adapt when they’re faced with something they don’t want to lose.”
Her words linger, heavy with implications I don’t fully understand.
I sigh, glancing back at the mirror. The woman staring back at me still looks like a stranger, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes now—a spark, faint but undeniable.
“What if I can’t?” I ask softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if I lose myself before I can figure it out?”
“You won’t,” Vera says firmly, stepping closer to rest a hand on my arm. “You’re stronger than you think, Hannah. I’ll remind you, every step of the way, if I have to.”
Her sincerity hits me harder than I expect, and for the first time all day, I feel a sliver of hope breaking through the weight of everything.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice unsteady.
Vera nods, her grip on my arm reassuring. “Now,” she says with a faint smile, “let’s make sure you’re ready. You’ve got a fight ahead of you, dear, and you’ll need all the strength you can muster.”