Chapter 5 - Katya
The morning after the wedding, I wake up alone in a bed so big it feels like I could get lost in it. The sheets are crisp, blinding white, and the pillows smell a little like cedar—and him.
The room’s quiet, except for this low whir from the heater somewhere in the walls. Sunlight cuts through the blinds in sharp stripes across the floor. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to hit me.
But it doesn’t. That worries me.
I sit up slowly. The nightgown Tatiana made me wear—silk, pale blue, honestly absurdly expensive—slips off my shoulder. I pull it back up and look around.
This guest house is bigger than my old apartment. High ceilings, wooden beams, and a sitting area with a fireplace still glowing from last night. My dress is draped over a chair like a ghost. His jacket is missing.
He didn’t stay.
Part of me is relieved. The rest of me is just annoyed I even care.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. Nothing from him. Just a bunch of texts from Tatiana—asking if I’m okay, dropping heart emojis—and one from Ilariy: Call me when you’re ready.
No word from Agafon or the others.
Guess they’ve checked out now that the rings are on.
I shower in a bathroom with more marble than sense, wrap myself in a thick robe from the back of the door, and wander downstairs barefoot.
The kitchen is ridiculous—two ovens, a fridge big enough to stash a body, an island that could seat a whole family. There’s fresh coffee. Two mugs out. One has a note tucked underneath.
Gone to handle some things. Back tonight.
Help yourself to anything.
—T
I crumple the note and toss it.
The coffee’s strong, dark, exactly what I need. I drink it black, standing at the window, looking out over the estate. Snow dusts the lawn. The tent from the reception is gone—packed up sometime while I slept. Everything’s back to normal, peaceful, like yesterday never happened.
But it did.
I spend the morning wandering. There’s a library with shelves straight to the ceiling, a gym I have zero plans of using, and a sunroom packed with plants that probably cost more than my car. Every room screams him—clean lines, dark wood, green accents here and there.
No junk. No clutter. Just pure order.
I hate how much I like it.
By noon, I’m restless. I can’t just sit around. I need air, something normal, movement. I pull on yesterday’s jeans, sweater, boots, and slip outside. There’s a path winding through the trees toward what’s got to be the main house, but I head the other way, following a gravel trail to a small pond.
It’s cold. My cheeks burn. I don’t care.
I sit on a stone bench, knees pulled up, and let the quiet settle in.
This is my life now. Married. Living on the Sokolov land. Definitely watched. Definitely “protected.” That word tastes sour.
I think about the shop.
My shop.
I haven’t been back since he walked in and flipped everything upside down. Tatiana texted yesterday that she’d check on it, make sure the part-timers were handling things, but it’s not the same.
I need to be there. I need the smell of butter and sugar, the rhythm of piping, the little bell over the door. That’s where I actually breathe.
I call her.
She picks up on the second ring. “Katya? You okay?”
“No,” I say. “But I’m alive.”
She exhales, soft. “Where are you?”
“His place. The guest house, I think. It’s… big.”
“Yeah. I saw the pictures when Arina showed them to me. It’s gorgeous, but—”
“It’s not home.”
She goes quiet. “Do you want me to come get you?”
I close my eyes. “I want to go to the shop.”
“Katya—”
“I know. I know it’s stupid. But I need to see it. Just for an hour. Please.”
She’s been silent for so long, I think she’ll say no. Then, “I’ll meet you there in thirty. If anyone asks, I’m kidnapping you for sister time.”
I almost laugh. “Deal.”
I hang up, pocket my phone, and head back. I don’t have a car here—mine’s still at the cathedral, I think—but there’s a black SUV parked right outside with the keys already in it.
Of course. I get in, start the engine, and go.
The shop looks the same from the street. Gold lettering, window display with yesterday’s macarons lined up in neat rows. The closed sign’s flipped, but the lights are on. Tatiana’s already inside when I pull up.
She opens the door before I can even knock. Hugs me so tight I can’t breathe.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers into my hair. “I’m so sorry.”
I squeeze her back. “Not your fault.”
We step inside. The bell rings. The smell hits me—sugar, vanilla, a little cardamom from whatever the part-timer’s been messing with. My shoulders drop. I didn’t even realize how tense I was until now.
Tatiana locks the door behind us. “The girls are off today. Just us.”
I slide behind the counter like I never left. My hand drifts over the marble, cool and familiar. I open the cooler and check the stock. It’s all there. Too perfect, almost. Like someone else kept my place alive while I was gone.
I lean against the prep table. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“He said it would just be in name.” My voice catches. “But he moved me in. Didn’t ask. Didn’t even tell me—just woke up this morning in his house.”
Tatiana winces. “Arina said he’s… intense. With people he cares about.”
“He doesn’t care about me. He wants to own me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She hops up next to me. “Ilariy says Tikhon’s different. He’s not as cruel. More… patient.”
“Patient?” I let out a dry laugh. “He threatened to turn my shop into a laundry front.”
She doesn’t push back. Just waits.
I start pacing. “I told him—name only. No touching, nothing. And he just agreed. Like it was nothing. Like he’s got all the time in the world to wear me down.”
“Maybe he does.”
I stop and stare at her. “You think I’ll cave?”
“I think you’re human. And he’s—” She shrugs. “He’s good-looking. And he wants you. Bad.”
“That’s not a good reason.”
“No. It’s not.”
We fall quiet. My hands start grabbing ingredients—flour, butter, eggs. I need to do something, anything.
Tatiana watches as I cream butter and sugar. “What are you making?”
“Something dumb. Lemon bars. I just need to bake.”
She smiles a little. “Then bake.”
So I do. I measure, mix, and pour the batter into a pan. My hands know the moves. It helps. When the bars are finally in the oven, I lean on the sink and let the tears spill out. Quiet. Tatiana just rubs my back, slow and steady.
The timer goes off. I pull the pan out and let it cool. The smell fills the kitchen—sharp, sweet, bright. I cut one while it’s still hot, burn my fingers, don’t care. Take a bite.
It’s perfect.
I break one in half and hand it to Tatiana. She eats it in two bites.
“You’re so good at this,” she says.
I stare at the rest. “I don’t want to lose it.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
She looks at me. “You’re Katya Letvin. You don’t quit.”
“Sokolov now,” I mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “Technically. But you’re still you.”
I don’t feel like myself. I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s name, someone else’s life.
We clean up together. Wash bowls, wipe down counters. Once everything’s spotless, I shut off the lights, lock up, and we step outside into the cold.
“I have to go back,” I say.
“I know.”
We hug longer this time.
“Call me,” she says. “Whenever. Middle of the night. Doesn’t matter.”
“I will.”
She drives off. I sit in the SUV, staring at the shop through the windshield. Finally, I start the engine and head back to the estate.
He’s home when I get there. No coat, sleeves rolled, standing in the kitchen pouring two glasses of red wine. He glances up as I walk in.
“You went out.”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t ask where. Just hand me a glass. “How was it?”
I sip. It’s good. “Shop’s fine.”
He nods. “Good.”
We stand there. Not talking. The silence isn’t comfortable, but it’s not sharp either.
“I meant what I said,” I tell him. “In name only.”
“I heard you.”
“So why am I here? In your house?”
“Because you’re my wife.” Like it’s that simple.
“I could live with my family.”
“You could.” He sets his glass down. Takes a step closer. He’s not crowding me, just… closer. “But you’re not going to.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’d fight them every day. And you’re tired of fighting.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
I look up at him. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“I’m not asking.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
He studies me. “Time. Space. Let me show you I’m not the enemy.”
“You blackmailed me.”
“I did.” No apology, just fact. “And I’d do it again to keep you safe.”
“Safe from what? My own family?”
“From everything.” His voice softens. “Even me, if that’s what it takes.”
I search his face, looking for a lie. Nothing.
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t hate you as much as I did yesterday.”
He almost smiles. “Progress.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
He lifts his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He steps back, gives me space. “Dinner’s in an hour. If you want.”
I don’t answer right away. Finally, “Maybe.”
He nods and heads upstairs. Pauses at the bottom.
“Katya.”
I look over.
“You’re safe here. I promise.”
Then he’s gone.
I stand in the kitchen, wine in hand, heart pounding.
I don’t know what to believe.
But for the first time since the wedding, I don’t want to run.
Not yet.
***
The guest suite is mine. That was one of my non-negotiables when I signed my life away in that icy, echoing cathedral. No sharing a bedroom. No forced closeness. No pretending this marriage is anything but a deal—rings, threats, and nothing more.
Tikhon didn’t argue. He just nodded, jaw clenched, and handed me the entire east wing upstairs. “Whatever you need,” he said. “It’s yours.”
I didn’t buy it then. Honestly, I’m still not sure I do.
But the room itself—God, it’s gorgeous.
It’s bigger than my old room at my father’s house. The ceiling’s vaulted, with dark beams exposed, so the whole place feels warm and a little old-fashioned, even as the rest of the house is all sharp lines and glass. The walls are this soft dove gray—peaceful, not cold.
A massive four-poster bed sits right in the middle, covered in cream sheets and a pile of throws—blush, charcoal, all sorts of textures. The headboard is tufted ivory velvet, and there are so many pillows it’s almost ridiculous. Some are firm, some soft, all of them begging me to just fall in.
Above the bed, a crystal chandelier catches the light—simple, not flashy. I know in the morning it’ll throw little rainbows all over the walls.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, draped with sheer white curtains that move just a bit, even when the windows are closed. Tonight, they’re open. The night air is cool, and I can smell the garden’s damp earth drifting in.
There’s a thick cream-colored rug covering most of the floor, so when I walk barefoot, it’s like stepping into a cloud.
Over by the windows, two armchairs in pale sage velvet and a low round table—books I haven’t read yet and a vase of peonies Tatiana brought yesterday.
Their petals are just opening, blush-pink, and their scent mingles with the lavender candle I lit earlier.
I love this room.
I love how quiet it is. How soft. How, for once, nothing about it feels like a cage.
Now I walk to the windows, barefoot, leaving the rug for the cool wood. I pull the curtains aside and press my forehead to the glass.
The gardens stretch out below—neat hedges, stone paths twisting through flower beds, a fountain in the middle, dark and still for the night.
Everything outside is washed silver in the moonlight. Calm, peaceful. It’s the kind of view I used to dream about when I was a kid—back before “normal” stopped feeling possible.
I put my palm against the glass. It’s cold.
What would a normal life even look like?
Something small. Not a mansion. Somewhere with a yard where I could plant herbs. A kitchen full of morning sunlight.
A husband with an ordinary job—teaching, maybe, or running a bookshop—who comes home and kisses me like I’m the best part of his day.
No bodyguards. No threats. No alliances hanging over us like knives.
Just us.
Quiet dinners. Lazy Sundays. Dumb arguments about dishes. Maybe kids one day—messy little girls with flour in their hair, boys who want to bake bread with me.
I close my eyes.
That was never my life to have. I was born a Letvin. In my world, love is leverage, and safety is something you buy. I thought the shop would be my rebellion—my tiny piece of normalcy. Even that’s ruined now. Watched. Invaded.
But I’m not letting them take it.
I open my eyes and stare at the gardens, moonlit and perfect. My reflection stares back—pale, stubborn, dark circles under my eyes from too many sleepless nights.
“I’m not giving it up,” I whisper to the glass. “Not the shop. Not my dream. Not a single inch. They can camp outside, watch me, threaten me till their voices break. But they’re never touching what’s mine.”
My breath leaves a little patch of fog on the glass.
“And Tikhon…” I pause. His name feels heavy in my mouth. Dangerous.
“He can try to keep me safe. He can fight my brothers. He can build me a kitchen if he wants. But if he ever, ever, tries to use my shop, tries to twist it into something dirty, something Bratva…I’ll burn it myself before I let that happen.”
I mean every word.
I step back. The curtains fall closed, shutting out the night.
I walk to the bed and slide under the covers, pulling the duvet up to my chin. The sheets are cool. I stare up at the ceiling—dark beams against white plaster—and think about him.
Tikhon.
In his own room, probably awake too. Probably staring at his ceiling, planning, worrying.
I can picture him—shirtless, hair a mess, green eyes sharp with thought. Sometimes he looks at me like I’m something fragile and wild at the same time. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.
I don’t know what I feel for him. Anger. Gratitude. Want. Fear. It’s all tied together, tight as a knot in my chest.
But I know one thing.
Whatever comes next—whatever marriage brings, whatever threats await in the dark—I will not let anyone take what’s mine.
Not my shop.
Not my freedom.
Not my heart.
I close my eyes.
For the first time in weeks, I fall asleep without crying.