Chapter Twenty-One - Clara
The morning after is quieter than I expect. For a long time, I lie in the tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling, the city’s pale sunlight slanting in through the high windows.
Lukyan’s side of the bed is cold. He’s already gone, but the faint trace of his cologne lingers on the pillow, a secret that makes my chest ache.
I pull on a robe and pad down the hall, heart skipping with each silent step. My mind races with fragments of last night—his hands, his voice, the truths he finally let slip in the darkness.
The house is all hard angles and quiet, the day already moving forward as if nothing has changed.
When I finally find him, he’s in the study, standing at the window with his phone pressed to his ear, back rigid, voice low and sharp.
I linger in the doorway, watching him pace, noticing the bruises blooming across his knuckles.
I want to ask what happened, what violence he met this morning while I was still dreaming, but I hold my tongue. Some things are better left unsaid.
He sees me. For a moment, our eyes lock—one heartbeat, full of everything that has shifted between us. Then he looks away, ending the call with a clipped word. “You should eat,” he says, voice flat, and brushes past me without another glance. As if last night never happened. As if everything has.
I stand there, lost, fingers twisting the sash of my robe.
I want to follow him, to ask what I am to him now, but pride—or maybe fear—roots me in place.
I spend the morning in a daze, sipping coffee I don’t taste, staring at a book without seeing the words.
I move through the mansion like a ghost, haunted by the memory of his hands, the confession that slipped between us in the dark.
The day drags. By evening, the house comes alive, staff bustling, voices sharp and hurried.
“Clara, you’re to wear this.”
“Clara, your hair.”
“Clara, be ready by eight.”
I let them fuss, let them paint my lips, pin my hair, drape me in silk and diamonds I know don’t belong to me.
When Lukyan finds me, he’s immaculate—tailored black suit, jaw clean-shaven, eyes unreadable. He offers his arm. I take it, fingers trembling against the crisp fabric of his sleeve.
The car ride is silent, the city glowing and restless outside the tinted glass. My nerves twist as we arrive at the gala—a world of polished marble and gold, the reek of money and secrets thick as perfume.
Cameras flash. People part as Lukyan enters, some bowing their heads, some whispering his name. He moves like he owns the room, guiding me with a steady hand at the small of my back.
For a moment, I find my footing. I keep my chin up, smile when I must, say little, let the noise wash over me. Here, I am nothing but an accessory, and for once that feels almost safe.
Then, from across the ballroom, she appears.
Tall, elegant, impossibly poised—Irina Volkova. She glides toward us in a shimmer of silver and red lips, her confidence a weapon sharper than any knife. There’s history in the set of her shoulders, the way she smiles at Lukyan, brushing her arm against his as she greets him.
“Lukyan,” she purrs, voice smooth as velvet. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing company tonight.”
He stiffens beside me, his grip at my waist tightening. “She’s my wife. Clara goes where I go.”
The words should comfort me. Instead, they thud in my chest, uncertain and raw. Irina’s eyes flick to me, bright with amusement, her smirk curling as if she’s seen all this before, and knows how it ends.
“Charming,” she says, her tone a challenge masked as a compliment. “I do hope she enjoys herself.”
For a moment, I see a flicker of something in Lukyan’s eyes—guilt, maybe, or anger, or an old, unhealed wound. Then it’s gone, his face smoothed to that mask I know so well.
Irina lingers, gaze raking over me with calculated interest. The conversation shifts, people gathering around, laughter rising and falling like the music from the band.
But the only thing I can feel is her presence, her perfume, her history, the way she makes me feel young and inexperienced and, worst of all, exposed.
I cling to Lukyan’s side, smile brittle, nerves coiling tighter. I want to ask him what Irina means to him, what they were, what they might still be.
Pride won’t let me. Not here, not with so many eyes on us, not with his hand steady at my back and hers still on his sleeve.
Irina’s laughter rings out. “You really do know how to surprise me, Lukyan.”
She leans in, too close, and whispers something only he can hear. I see the muscles jump in his jaw, the way his gaze flickers to mine. I wonder if I’m out of my depth.
He turns to me, his touch protective, his eyes softer for a moment. “You’re with me,” he repeats, as if it’s a promise or a warning, or both.
Irina’s smirk lingers as she drifts away, leaving a shadow between us I can’t name.
The gala sprawls on, gold and crystal blurring into a haze of clinking glasses and sharp, expensive laughter.
Irina is everywhere—her laughter too loud, her red lips flashing in the crowd, her voice always just a little too pointed when she speaks to Lukyan or anyone who dares stand near him.
Even in a room full of power, she moves with the easy confidence of someone who knows she can get away with anything.
At first, I try to ignore her. I busy myself with the art on the walls, with the canapés, with the polite small talk of strangers who seem eager to know who Lukyan Sharov’s new wife really is.
Irina circles closer each time I find a moment’s peace, her perfume trailing like a warning, her eyes always finding mine before they flicker to Lukyan’s arm at my waist.
She joins our conversations, her laughter a little too loud, her stories always ending with a knowing look at Lukyan.
He responds with practiced civility, his grip at my side steady but not possessive. There’s no outward sign of tension, but I can feel it thrumming in the air, every smile she gives him twisting something tight inside me.
I excuse myself to the restroom just to breathe, to see if the world feels less sharp behind a closed door. The lights are harsh, reflecting back my own anxious face, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with something I wish was anger but know is closer to jealousy.
When I step out to wash my hands, Irina is waiting, leaning against the marble countertop as if she owns it. Her smile is syrupy-sweet, eyes glittering in the mirror.
“So,” she purrs, “the famous Mrs. Sharov. You’re braver than you look, showing up here with him. Or maybe you just don’t know better yet.”
I force my lips into a polite smile, meeting her gaze in the reflection. “I know enough.”
Irina leans in, voice dropping low. “Be careful. He doesn’t stay interested for long.
He likes things that burn fast—women, money, loyalty.
Everything he touches gets left behind sooner or later.
” Her gaze lingers on my bare ring finger, on the diamonds at my throat.
“Don’t confuse the shine for something lasting, dear. ”
I hold her stare, refusing to flinch. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not here to keep him interested.”
For a split second, something flashes in her eyes—surprise, maybe even respect—before her smile sharpens again. She leans away, smoothing her hair, and glides out the door with a swish of silver, leaving me with my pulse racing and a hollow ache in my chest.
It’s not fear that unsettles me, it’s how much I suddenly care.
The rest of the night blurs around the edges.
I let Lukyan guide me through the crowd, his hand at my back as we say our goodbyes.
Irina’s laughter follows us, even after we slip out to the car, her words echoing through my mind.
Every gesture between us feels loaded—every brush of his fingers, every glance, every breath.
I want to ask, but I don’t. Not until the doors close and the city lights sweep past us in long, silent streaks.
We ride in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space between us. I stare out the window, trying to steady my breathing, but the question boils up and slips out before I can swallow it.
“She was your ex?” My voice is soft, almost embarrassed.
He hesitates, then nods once, his gaze on the city rushing past. “It was convenient. For both of us. She liked the danger, the parties. She never wanted more than that.” There’s a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or just exhaustion—in his eyes.
“It ended when she wanted to matter more than the rest. I don’t do second chances. ”
“Was this before or after…” I don’t finish. Before or after the one who died?
His expression hardens. “Before.”
His honesty, so quiet and matter-of-fact, breaks something open inside me. I study him for a long moment, searching for the edge of truth. “And me?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. “What am I?”
He turns to look at me, his eyes suddenly sharp, vulnerable in a way I rarely see. “You’re not a convenience, Clara. You’re not replaceable.” The words are rough, like he’s not used to saying them aloud. “Don’t let her make you doubt what’s real.”
I hold his gaze, not sure what that even means, only that when he says it, something deep inside me believes him.
The car slows. The driver announces our arrival. Lukyan reaches for my wrist, his touch warm, his thumb stroking over my pulse.
He leans in, voice pitched for my ears alone. “Irina’s nothing. She was the past. You’re here with me now, and I intend for it to stay that way.”
I feel the truth in his grip, in the quiet ferocity of his words, but the uncertainty lingers—a shadow I can’t quite shake.
The house feels cavernous as we step inside. Lukyan’s hand never leaves mine as we ascend the stairs. He says nothing more about Irina, only presses a lingering kiss to my temple as we part ways for the night. I watch him disappear down the corridor, the ache in my chest heavier than before.
I close myself in my room, shedding the borrowed diamonds and silk, staring at my reflection.
I look different now: older, sharper, and a little more haunted.
I try to picture Lukyan with Irina, but it’s blurry, unreal, nothing like the man who confessed the shape of his wounds to me only hours ago.
Sleep is slow to come. I toss and turn, Irina’s words still echoing: “He doesn’t stay interested for long.” But it’s Lukyan’s voice, rough and true, that finally lulls me toward rest: “Don’t let her make you doubt what’s real.”
I don’t know what “real” looks like in his world. I only know that I want it. I want him—messy, complicated, dangerous as that is.
Even if it means standing in the shadow of every lover who came before me. Even if it means letting him see just how much he’s starting to matter.