Chapter 3
Noelle
The drive from the church to Gladwyn Manor felt like a never-ending funeral. I sat in the back seat, with a full person's width between me and Kholod.
I didn't look at him, my gaze fixed on the window, watching the snow-covered scenery blur past as Philadelphia's lights were swallowed by thickening darkness and encroaching forest—as if I were being swallowed too.
"Cold?" Kholod broke the silence, his voice low and resonant in the sealed confines of the car.
I didn't answer.
He chuckled softly. "Playing deaf, huh?"
"I'm just not sure what to say to the man who kidnapped me."
His tone turned playful. "Noelle, we're legally married now. This is me bringing you home."
I finally turned to him, locking eyes with those sharp amber irises that pierced the dim light. "Your home is no different from a prison to me."
He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly, an oppressive weight crashing over me. "You really despise the idea of marrying me that much?"
"You've ruined my life."
"I've given you the Morozov name, the position every woman in Philadelphia dreams of—and that's ruining you?"
I took a deep breath, forcing down the surging emotions. "To me, it's just another form of captivity."
Kholod reached out suddenly, pinching my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to face him. "Noelle, if I truly wanted to cage you, you wouldn't even have the chance to speak."
His fingers were cool, but his grip was firm enough to make my jaw throb. I tried to pull away; he only tightened it.
"Let go," I gritted out.
"Keep up the stubborn act," he leaned in closer, his breath—a mix of cigar and mint—brushing my face. "I want to see how long you can hold out."
The car entered a private estate surrounded by dense forest, finally pulling up in front of a villa. Villa? It looked more like a fortress, with its dark gray stone, black steel accents, and vast expanses of bulletproof glass.
Kholod got out first, opened my door, and extended his hand.
I stared at that long, knuckled hand but didn't take it. Instead, I steadied myself on the doorframe and stood.
He withdrew it, a flicker of displeasure crossing his eyes, but he said nothing and turned toward the villa.
New home. New cage.
The wedding dinner—if you could even call it that.
The long table was draped in pristine white linen, with silverware gleaming coldly under the crystal chandeliers.
Anastasia still wore her tailored black suit from the ceremony, the soft luster of pearls at her neck failing to soften the aloofness on her face.
She appraised me openly, her gaze sharp enough to cut through flesh, as if dissecting the very essence of my soul.
Anya was more blunt. She barely looked up, only glancing over while toying with her phone, her lips curled in an unmasked sneer colder than the wind howling outside.
"Sit," Anastasia said at last. Kholod strode to the head of the table, and a servant guided me to the seat on his left. A maid quietly arranged my place settings and poured the red wine.
The entire meal unfolded in silence, broken only by the faint clink of knives and forks against fine porcelain.
I sat with my back ramrod straight, grateful for once for the etiquette lessons Sofia had drilled into me.
In that moment, they were my only armor, preventing me from faltering in such hostile territory.
I cut into my food mechanically but couldn't bring myself to swallow a single bite.
"Coming from Bellucci stock, handling this is already impressive," Anya said suddenly, eyeing me with mock pity. "Noelle, have you ever used cutlery this elaborate? Need me to teach you?"
My fingers tightened around the knife and fork, nails biting into my palm.
I looked up and offered her the faintest of smiles.
"Thanks for the offer, Anya. But I figure as long as the knife cuts and the fork lifts the food, I'm set.
After all, no matter how fancy the tools, they're still just for eating, right? "
Anya faltered, her face flushing with irritation. She opened her mouth to retort, but Anastasia, at the head of the table, lightly tapped her fork against her plate.
"Silence during meals. That's the house rule."
Anya pouted, shooting me a venomous glare, but fell silent.
That stifling wedding dinner finally came to an end, and a maid escorted me to the master bedroom.
The room was enormous, done in a classic European style, but the palette was oppressive—dark wood furniture, deep green velvet curtains, and massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a snow-blanketed forest. The only remotely bright element was a brand-new vanity tucked around the corner, jarringly modern amid the aged pieces.
The maid opened a door to reveal a bathroom nearly as large as my old bedroom. Another maid stood ready with towels and fresh clothes.
"Madam, please bathe."
I allowed them to remove my gown and stepped into the tub. Warm water infused with lavender oil enveloped me, but it only heightened the sense of suffocation.
He'd investigated me. Thoroughly.
Three years ago, on that Christmas Eve, it was me who pulled him back from the brink of death.
I'd never forget that night. Snow swirling everywhere, I'd left the church mass and taken a shortcut home.
In that dimly lit alley, I spotted him—face pale as death, eyes bloodshot.
High brows, deep-set eyes, a sharp nose like a mountain ridge, thin lips pressed tight, jawline resolute.
Snowflakes clung to his thick lashes. He slumped against the wall, his tall, imposing frame appearing uncharacteristically fragile.
I kissed him. Saved him, too. No denying it—at first sight, his stunning looks had captivated me.
I searched for him afterward, but he vanished without a trace. I dismissed it as a chance encounter.
Until I saw that stern profile in the financial news, paired with the name "Morozov." My heart plummeted.
The man I'd saved was the king of Philadelphia's underworld.
Worse still, less than six months into his rule, my father died. Suicide.
In those final months, I watched our family disintegrate, saw the light fade from his eyes.
Only later did I learn that Kholod Morozov was the architect of our ruin. He'd lumped my family in with his enemies.
The man I'd saved had killed my father.
How bitterly ironic.
So when he appeared with that bracelet, proposing marriage, I was stunned by his audacity.
I thought my outright rejection would deter him.
I was wrong.
He didn't relent. Instead, he began stalking me, a persistent shadow infiltrating every corner of my life.
That's why I agreed to the blind date my mother arranged, enduring the man's repulsive stares and touches.
Between him and me, my father's death would always loom.
Even if I'd saved him. Even if he'd married me now. Even if my heart still raced uncontrollably every time I saw him.
I hated him. Hated myself even more for it.
"Madam?" The maid's gentle voice interrupted. "The water's getting cold."
I opened my eyes, feeling tears slide down my cheeks, mingling indistinguishably with the bathwater.
Once the bath was over, I slipped into the silk nightgown they'd prepared—though I despised the feel of silk against my skin; it always left me chilled. I asked the maid to fetch a robe to drape over it, finally feeling some warmth.
The maids bowed and withdrew, leaving me alone in the room.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at this unfamiliar, opulent cage. I knew what was coming next.
I was his lawful wife now. Tonight was our wedding night.
I drew in a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm.
No matter what, I had to find a way to escape. I couldn't remain by my father's killer's side.
"What are you thinking about?" Kholod pushed the door open, carrying in a rush of cold air and the heavy scent of cigar smoke. He said nothing more, just approached from behind, his towering shadow engulfing me completely.
"When I can leave," I replied without turning, my voice as flat and lifeless as stagnant water.
He let out a low laugh. "Noelle, you still don't understand. The moment you set foot here, leaving became impossible."
I turned to face him, meeting those amber eyes that gleamed unnervingly in the dim light.
"Why?" I demanded, my heart aching, but my composure held firm. "Why me? Philadelphia is full of women desperate to marry you. Why choose me?"
"Because you're destined to be mine." He advanced step by step, his gaze turning predatory. "What you did the first time we met—do I need to remind you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." I averted my face, hiding the panic in my eyes.
"Don't know?" He seized my chin abruptly, forcing me to look at him. "Then why did you react so intensely to that bracelet?"
"Because you used some sketchy bracelet to blackmail me into marriage!" I wrenched free from his grasp and stood. "Kholod Morozov, who do you think you are? You believe money and power let you do whatever you damn well please?"
"I'm your husband."
"A man who used threats and family debts to force me? You call that a husband?"
"Whether I qualify isn't for you to decide." He narrowed his eyes, closing in steadily. "I offered you a choice. You squandered it."
"Choice?" I retreated until my back hit the wall. "That was a threat! It was kidnapping!"
"So what?" He was right in front of me now, hands planted on either side of my body, caging me in. "The outcome is the same. You're my wife. That's a fact."
"I'll never acknowledge this marriage!" His presence was suffocating, but I lifted my chin defiantly. "I hate you!"
"Hate me?" He leaned down, his hot breath fanning my face. "Good. Hate is a bond too."
"You're a psychopath! A control freak! A stalker!" I couldn't contain my emotions any longer; they erupted. "What am I to you? Your pet?"
"Pet?" Kholod laughed, a smile I'd never seen before—cruel and exhilarated.
"No, Noelle, pets are for pampering." He leaned in closer, hands still braced, trapping me. "You..."