Chapter 6
The kitchen is quieter now, but I can still hear her voice echoing in my head.
?Я надеюсь, что смогу сделать вас счастливым… чтобы вы не отправили меня обратно к отцу.?
I hope I can make you happy so you won’t send me back to my father.
When those words slipped out of her trembling mouth, something inside me snapped—not at her, but at the thought of her believing that was even possible.
And I almost barked again. Not from anger…
but from the sharp, unexpected punch of emotion I couldn’t hide quickly enough.
I know some Russian. Not much. Just enough to understand alliances, negotiations, threats.
That’s what I told myself when I started learning months ago—that I needed it for The Family. For diplomacy. But I’m a liar.
I learned it for her. For my wife.
I run a hand over my jaw as she moves around the kitchen, quietly placing food in front of me like she’s unsure she’s allowed to breathe in this house.
Her hands shake when she pours the juice.
Her eyes stay fixed on the floor. Her shoulders hunch like she’s apologizing for taking up space.
And I hate it. I hate what they did to her.
I hate that I almost fed into it this morning.
I watch her sit down across from me, back straight, eyes lowered, as if waiting for instructions she expects me to give.
I clear my throat. “Eat.”
She does—small bites, quick and careful, like someone who’s been trained to finish before anyone can reprimand her. I need to pull her out of this shell. But how the hell do you fix something that’s been carved into a person since childhood? I try the obvious approach first.
“What do you like to do, Elena?”
Her fork stops mid-air. She blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it again.
“I…” She swallows. “I don’t know.”
“How do you not know what you like?”
Stupid question. I realize it the second it leaves my mouth.
She presses her lips together. “My mother chose my lessons. My father approved them. I was expected to focus on what was appropriate.”
“What was appropriate?”
“Embroidery. Piano. Language studies. Hosting etiquette. Charity work.”
All chosen for her. All designed to make her useful… and quiet. It makes my jaw ache.
I try again. “And outside of that? Friends? Hobbies?”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her posture folds inward.
“I didn’t… go out much,” she admits. “My schedule was managed. My outings monitored. My friends were… mostly cousins.”
So no friends. No normal childhood. No independence. Just a life lived under surveillance. I decide to switch tactics.
“What did you study in school?”
“Business,” she answers immediately. A small tilt of her mouth like she wants to smile. “And finance.”
I stop chewing. That’s not a docile socialite education. That’s real. Useful. Valuable. A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Good.”
She startles a little, like she’s not used to praise coming without strings attached.
“Good?” she repeats softly.
“Yes. Very good.” I sit back in my chair, assessing her with new eyes. “Business and finance are exactly what I need today.”
Her brows knit in confusion.
“Finish eating,” I tell her. “Then get dressed.”
“Dressed?”
“Yes. You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
I push back my chair, standing with a certainty I haven’t felt since dawn. “The phone call I got this morning? You’re going to help me handle it.”
Her lips part in shock. “But… but I don’t know how.”
“You will.” My voice softens—just barely. “You’re a Moretti now. You’re capable. And whether you realize it or not…” I hold her gaze until she finally lifts her eyes to mine. “…you’re exactly who I want beside me today.”
Her breath catches. And for the first time since I met her, I see it—a flicker of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Not obedience. Something warmer. Something uncertain. Something alive. A spark.
She disappears into the bedroom to get ready while I stand in the hall, rolling my cuffs and trying not to think about my wife changing in the other room.
When she steps out, I feel something settle low in my chest. She looks neat. Polished. Perfect. Too perfect. And she tugs at the hem of her shirt—once, twice—before she folds her hands in front of her like she’s trying to hide the gesture.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yes.” Her voice is soft but steady.
I lead her through the foyer and out to the circular drive where the SUV is already waiting. Another pulls up behind it, my men keeping close enough to intervene, far enough to give space.
Her eyes flick to the second vehicle. Maybe she’s nervous about the danger. About the reality of marrying into our family.
“The second SUV is just precaution,” I tell her trying to ease her worry.
To my surprise, she nods calmly. “I assumed. My father never sent me anywhere without security.”
That throws me for a second. She isn’t nervous about the guns or the men. So why does she look… uneasy?
Once we’re in the SUV and the doors close, I ask, “If you’re used to security, why do you look nervous?”
She stares out the window. “I’m not.”
Her fingers immediately tug her shirt again—small, quick, like she hopes I won’t notice.
“I mean this,” I say, nodding toward her hand. “The shirt.”
Her back goes rigid.
“Oh.” Her voice cracks, barely audible. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing it. I won’t do it in front of anyone. I promise. I won’t embarrass you.”
There it is—the flinch I hate. The apology for breathing. The instinct to make herself small. Before she can shrink any further, I reach across the space and gently catch her wrist. She goes perfectly still, her other hand curling into a fist on her lap.
“Elena,” I say quietly. “You aren’t an embarrassment.” Her eyes flick up to mine, uncertain. Almost disbelieving. “Why are you pulling on your shirt?”
She exhales, defeated. “I… hate it.”
My brows lift. “Then why wear it?”
Her lips part slightly, and before she can stop herself, she whispers, “…because it’s the least thing I hated.”
My chest tightens. And then the truth hits me like a punch. They chose her clothes. The anger is instant and sharp.
“They chose your clothes?” The words come harsher than intended. She stiffens again. Back straight. Shoulders tight. Eyes down. I tighten my hold on her hand—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground her. “I’m not angry at you.”
A breath slips from her chest, shaky.
“I’ll fix it,” I say, voice dropping low. “All of it.”
She looks at me—really looks—and something unspoken passes between us. Some kind of acknowledgment. The rest of the ride is quiet. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… quiet. Her hand stays in mine until the SUV slows in front of our destination.