Chapter Fifteen - Hannah
The mansion is eerily quiet in the early hours of the morning, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes every footstep sound like a thunderclap. I wander its endless halls, trying to make sense of my new reality, though the weight of it feels like a chain dragging behind me.
It’s not just the size of the mansion—it’s the way it feels alive with its own rules, its own secrets. The windows stretch almost floor-to-ceiling in some corridors, offering a view of the sprawling grounds. The lawn is perfectly manicured, bordered by rows of flowers and tall iron gates in the distance.
Even with all this space, I feel trapped.
I move aimlessly, trailing my fingers along the smooth banisters of the grand staircase and stopping occasionally to peer into rooms that are equal parts luxurious and uninviting. Every polished surface and ornate detail screams wealth, but it does nothing to ease the restlessness knotting in my chest.
My thoughts spin endlessly: about the child I’m carrying, the marriage I never wanted, and the man I can’t seem to understand. Makar is cold, calculating, a force I’ve yet to grasp fully. He doesn’t let me in, and I’m not sure I want to get in.
Eventually, my wandering leads me to the kitchen. It’s surprisingly warm and inviting compared to the rest of the house. Copper pots hang from hooks, the scent of freshly baked bread lingers in the air, and the morning light filters through small, lace-edged curtains above the sink.
A woman stands near the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s in her late fifties, with soft, kind eyes and her gray-streaked hair pinned into a neat bun. She looks up when I step inside, her expression shifting into a small, polite smile.
“Hello, Mrs Sharov,” she says, her voice gentle but carrying a quiet authority.
I flinch slightly at the name, but manage a nod. “Hannah,” I correct softly.
“Of course,” she says, inclining her head. “Whatever you prefer.”
We stand there for a moment in awkward silence, and I realize how out of place I must look—lost in my own house.
“Would you like some tea?” Vera offers, her tone casual but kind.
I hesitate, but the warmth in her voice chips away at my defenses. “Sure,” I say finally.
Vera moves with practiced ease, pulling a kettle from the stove and filling it with water. As it heats, she sets a delicate china cup and saucer in front of me, along with a small dish of sugar and cream.
I sit at the kitchen table, my fingers tracing the edge of the saucer as she pours the steaming water over a tea bag and sets it down in front of me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking a tentative sip.
For a moment, we sit in companionable silence, the sound of the kettle cooling filling the room.
“You’ve been exploring the house,” Vera says after a while, her tone more observation than question.
“Yes,” I admit, glancing out the window. “It’s… overwhelming.”
“It takes time to adjust,” Vera replies gently. “I’ve been here for over thirty years, and even now, it surprises me.”
I blink, setting my cup down. “Thirty years? That’s… a long time.”
She nods, her expression softening with nostalgia. “It is. I’ve seen a lot of people come and go. But the house… it has its own way of holding on to things. Memories, I suppose.”
I pause, unsure if I want to delve further. Something about Vera’s calm presence feels grounding, and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. “Does it get easier? Living here?”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, her smile falters. “That depends on you,” she says honestly. “This place can feel like a fortress. It can also be a home, if you let it.”
I snort softly, shaking my head. “A home,” I echo, the word foreign and hollow on my tongue. “I’m not sure I even know what that means anymore.”
Vera studies me for a moment, her hands folding neatly in front of her. “A home isn’t about walls or wealth, Hannah. It’s about finding a way to make peace with where you are.”
Her words settle over me, heavy and unwelcome. “Peace,” I say bitterly. “That’s not exactly in the cards for me right now.”
“You say that now, but things won’t always feel so hopeless,” Vera replies, her voice steady.
I look at her, a lump forming in my throat. It’s been so long since someone spoke to me like this—with kindness, without an ulterior motive.
“Do you… like it here?” I ask hesitantly.
Vera tilts her head thoughtfully. “It has its challenges,” she admits. “But I’ve made my place here. I’ve learned to focus on the good. I’ve learned that even in the hardest circumstances, there’s always something worth holding on to.”
Her gaze lingers on me meaningfully, and I realize she’s offering something more than words—an unspoken understanding, a lifeline in the overwhelming sea of my own thoughts.
Vera settles into the chair opposite me, her hands clasped neatly on the table. She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting around the kitchen as if gathering her thoughts. The air feels warmer here, less suffocating than the rest of the mansion.
“This house,” she begins softly, “has always been a strange place to live. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Grand and imposing, but… cold, in a way.”
I nod slowly, unsure of how to respond.
“It wasn’t always like this,” Vera continues. “When Makar was young, this place was alive. His parents hosted dinners, there were celebrations, and the staff—well, we weren’t just workers. We were a family, of sorts.”
I glance at her, intrigued despite myself. “What happened?”
Her smile falters, and a shadow crosses her face. “Time happened. Loss happened. The world outside these walls grew harsher, and the family had to adapt. Makar’s father… he was a good man, but strict. He believed in discipline, in responsibility. He passed that on to his sons.”
I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table. “Makar had a brother?”
“Anatoly,” Vera says, her voice softening with a tinge of sorrow. “Younger by a few years. The two of them were inseparable as boys. Makar was always the responsible one, taking care of his brother, making sure he stayed out of trouble. It was almost as if he thought it was his duty.”
I try to imagine Makar as a child, running through the halls of this enormous house, laughing and carefree. It doesn’t fit with the cold, controlled man I’ve come to know.
“Even then,” Vera continues, “he was serious. He always felt the weight of the family’s expectations. But there was a lightness to him too. He was… kind. Protective. When Anatoly died….” She trails off, shaking her head. “It changed him. Hardened him.”
Her words are heavy with meaning. I think of the man who had kissed me with such intensity last night, who had laid down rules with an iron will this morning. I can’t reconcile that man with the boy Vera describes.
“Do you think…?” I hesitate, unsure if I want the answer. “Do you think there’s still a part of him that’s like that? Kind.”
Vera’s smile returns, faint but knowing. “I do,” she says. “It’s buried deep, but it’s there. I’ve seen glimpses of it. You might too, if you look hard enough.”
I snort softly, shaking my head. “I doubt that.”
“Give it time,” Vera says simply.
Her words stir something in me, but I push it aside. “What about you?” I ask, eager to shift the focus away from Makar. “How did you end up here?”
“I’ve been here since I was very young,” Vera replies, a touch of pride in her voice. “I came when I was just a girl, working under the housekeeper before me. I’ve seen this house through many seasons, many changes.”
I nod, her story comforting in its simplicity. She’s steady, a quiet anchor in a place that feels like it’s constantly shifting beneath my feet.
Without thinking, I say, “I used to have something like that. A sense of stability, I mean.”
Vera tilts her head, encouraging me to continue.
“My mom,” I say quietly, my gaze dropping to my hands. “She used to make this dessert—cinnamon rolls with cherries on top. I’d come home from school, and she’d have them ready. They weren’t fancy or anything, but… they made everything feel normal. Safe.”
My voice falters, and I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to push them back, ashamed of the vulnerability slipping through.
Vera reaches across the table, her hand resting gently over mine. Her touch is warm, grounding. “That sounds lovely,” she says softly. “Food has a way of bringing back memories, doesn’t it? It’s not just about the taste—it’s the feeling, the comfort it brings.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I haven’t had them since she passed.”
Vera squeezes my hand lightly, then pulls back, giving me a sympathetic smile. “Maybe one day, we can make them together.”
Her words catch me off guard, and I glance up at her, surprised by the kindness in her offer. “I’d like that,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the moment. I stiffen automatically, the warmth of the kitchen replaced by a chill as Makar steps into the room.
His gaze sweeps over me, sharp and assessing. He’s still in his suit from earlier, the dark fabric immaculate despite the long day.
“Adjusting?” he asks, his tone laced with a smirk.
I bristle, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m surviving,” I reply flatly.
His smirk deepens, and his eyes linger on me for a moment longer than necessary. There’s something in his gaze— an attention that unsettles me, makes me feel both exposed and curious all at once.
“Good,” he says finally, his tone dismissive. “I’m glad to see you making friends.”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t give me the satisfaction of reacting. He turns to Vera, nodding in acknowledgment. “I’ll need dinner prepared in the study this evening.”
“Of course, Mr. Sharov,” Vera replies smoothly.
Makar’s attention shifts back to me briefly, his expression unreadable. “Try not to make trouble,” he says, his voice low and almost amused. Then, just as quickly as he entered, he’s gone, his presence leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
I exhale slowly, tension bleeding out of my shoulders.
“He’s not so bad,” Vera says lightly, her tone teasing.
I snort softly, shaking my head. “He’s the worst.”
She chuckles, gathering the tea cups from the table. “You’d be surprised how much people can change, Hannah. Even him.”
I don’t answer, but her words linger as I stare out the window, my thoughts drifting between the past and an uncertain future.
I glance toward the doorway where Makar disappeared moments ago, my chest tightening with conflicting emotions. Can someone like him really change? Could the ruthless man who holds my freedom hostage—the man who controls my every move—be capable of something softer?
I want to scoff at the thought, to push it away as ridiculous, but the memory of his touch last night, the fire in his gaze, stops me. There was something else there, wasn’t there? Something more.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Vera says gently, breaking through my spiraling thoughts.
I blink, startled, and look at her.
She smiles knowingly. “Take things one day at a time. You don’t have to figure it all out now.”
I nod faintly, though the uncertainty still gnaws at me.
As Vera places a reassuring hand on my shoulder before turning back to her work, I let out a slow breath. One day at a time. It’s all I can manage for now.