Chapter Fifteen - Suzy
I wake tangled in sheets that cost more than my first car—soft, slick, heavy with last night’s sweat and the scent of roses wilting on the dresser.
For a heartbeat, I let myself stay. Leon’s arm is draped over my waist, warm and solid, his chest pressed tight against my back.
The room is still and golden, sunlight fanning over the ceiling like a blessing. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe in peace. In safety. In a world where I could want him without consequence.
The illusion cracks as soon as I open my eyes.
There’s no mistaking where I am—the high windows, the acres of polished stone, the hush that’s too deliberate to be comforting.
The ache between my legs, the sting of his stubble on my skin, the memory of his mouth on my throat.
All of it slams into me at once. I go rigid, breath caught, every muscle tensed for flight.
He shifts behind me, not quite awake but already watchful.
I can feel his eyes on me. My skin prickles under the weight of him, a shiver running through me that has nothing to do with cold.
I twist out from under his arm before I’ve even thought it through, scrambling for distance, for dignity, for air.
My feet hit the floor. I grab the first thing I can—one of his silk robes, ludicrously soft, impossibly expensive, the belt dragging as I cinch it tight around my waist.
Leon props himself up on one elbow, watching in silence, his hair mussed, his face unreadable.
“You’re my wife, Suzy,” he says, voice heavy with sleep and something harder. “Stop pretending you don’t want me.”
The words land like a slap. Shame flares hot across my cheeks. I hate how my body reacts—how my skin tingles from his touch, how the memory of his hands makes my breath hitch even as I glare at him.
I want to spit back something cruel, to tell him he’s wrong, to remind him I didn’t choose any of this, but my mouth won’t cooperate.
I bolt before he can see me falter. The bedroom door slams behind me, echoing down a hallway that’s all marble and mirrors and nowhere to hide.
The walls feel closer now, the hush oppressive, the faint scent of Leon’s cologne trailing after me as I hurry past shuttered windows and silent portraits.
Every bootstep I imagine behind me is a reminder: I’m not free. Not really.
I tell myself I can leave, but every route leads past a pair of guards who never speak, never smile, never move unless ordered.
This house was once a fortress I tried to escape. Now it’s my home, on paper and in law, and the irony makes me want to laugh and scream all at once. The dining room is empty except for one nervous housekeeper, who glances away as I enter.
I slide into a seat, staring at a breakfast spread I have no appetite for.
Eggs gone cold, pastries too delicate to touch. I push food around my plate, try to look busy, to look like I belong. But every movement feels false. Every sound—the hum of the air conditioner, the muted clink of silver—reminds me I’m being watched, even when I’m alone.
I dress in clothes chosen by someone else, a wardrobe curated for the perfect Mafia bride. Cashmere, silk, black and ivory and gold. I let a stylist brush my hair, let a maid paint my nails, let the ritual numb me.
I scroll through texts from Elara, from my mother—safe, bright words on a glowing screen, proof that there’s still a world outside these gates. Elara sends memes and a selfie, a lipstick-stained coffee cup, a sly question about my “honeymoon.”
I want to tell her the truth, but the words dissolve before I can even type them. My mother’s message is worse: three lines of perfect French, a congratulations laced with warning. I stare at my phone until the text blurs, then put it face down on the table and pretend not to care.
I try to read a magazine, but the words slide past my eyes without meaning. I check the time, check the windows, check the locked doors at the end of every corridor. There’s always someone standing guard.
Always a corridor I can’t enter, a garden I can’t reach. Any request—a walk, a car, a phone call—is routed quietly to Leon for approval. No one says it, but the rules are clear: this estate is a cage, no matter how pretty the bars.
He doesn’t come to find me. Not all morning, not through lunch, not as the hours tick by and the ache in my chest grows sharper.
I try to hate him for it. I try to count the ways I resent his control, his silence, the way the entire house bends to his rules.
I keep thinking about last night—about the way he touched me, not as a conqueror but as if he was learning me, mapping me, trying to remember every shiver and gasp for the rest of his life.
The way he pulled me close afterward, held me so tight I could feel the beat of his heart, steady and unguarded.
I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t want him.
All day, my thoughts keep drifting back to the bed, the heat, the way his hands trembled when he reached for me in the dark. The gentleness under all that hunger. The feeling—terrifying and undeniable—of being chosen, even when I swore I hated him for it.
I’m still angry. Still trapped. Still uncertain of everything but the ache in my chest, the memory of his mouth, the impossible hope that maybe, beneath all this, there’s a way for me to belong, not just to this house, not just to him, but to myself.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. As I pace the marble halls, I realize I’m not just afraid anymore. I’m awake, and maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
***
The first week of marriage passes in a dream I can’t wake from.
Hours slip by—too bright, too cold, every surface too polished to leave a mark.
I move through the house like a shadow in someone else’s memory, footsteps echoing off marble that never warms. I try to stay busy.
If I keep moving, maybe I won’t have to feel.
Maybe I can outrun the ache in my chest.
I start by exploring, searching for corners I can claim as my own.
There are endless corridors, rooms stuffed with heavy furniture and silk drapes, vases of white roses on every table.
Some doors are locked. Some open onto rooms that feel haunted by lives I’ll never be part of: a music room, silent except for the dust on the piano keys; a library lined with books in half a dozen languages I barely read.
I pause at the shelves, fingers trailing over spines with names that mean nothing to me. There are marks in some of the margins—old, spidery handwriting, someone else’s secrets.
I wish, wildly, that I could go back to being anonymous, that nobody had ever taught me to read between the lines.
In one hallway, I stumble into what must have been a family room once.
The walls are covered in photographs: Leon as a boy, gap-toothed and wild; Leon with a brother who looks nothing like him, both boys standing stiff in pressed shirts, their eyes wary.
I spot a woman with Leon’s dark hair and stern mouth—his mother, maybe, or an aunt.
In every photo, the family looks almost happy, but there’s a tightness to the smiles, a kind of formality that tells its own story.
Not mine, I think, staring at a snapshot of a birthday party, a cake with too many candles, Leon scowling at the camera. None of this is mine.
There’s a window at the end of the room, high and narrow, overlooking the gardens. The world beyond the glass is a tangle of hedges and fountains, bursts of late-blooming roses, paths winding away into shadow. I press my forehead to the cool pane, closing my eyes for a moment.
If I screamed, nobody would hear me from here. The realization is sharp, lonely—a reminder of how high the walls are, how far away the world feels now. For the first time in ages, tears prick behind my eyes. I bite my lip hard, refusing to give in. I’ve shed enough tears in this house already.
By afternoon, I’m restless and tired in equal measure, nerves frayed raw. I wander back to my suite, hoping for quiet, only to find Leon’s head of security waiting for me in the hall. He’s all crisp lines and impassive eyes, holding out a leather folder with my name embossed in gold.
“Your schedule, Mrs. Sharov,” he says, as if this is normal, as if I should be grateful.
I take the folder, my hands trembling. Inside, there’s a week mapped out in perfect, relentless detail: language tutors at nine, art lessons at eleven, fitness training, appointments with a stylist, lunch with Leon, etiquette lessons, yoga, afternoon tea.
Every minute accounted for, every activity “suggested” but non-negotiable. There’s even a note at the bottom.
Any changes, please consult Mr. Sharov.
The message is clear: my life is not my own. I think, briefly, about refusing. About making a scene, tearing the schedule in half, demanding the freedom I was promised.
I’m tired. So tired. The exhaustion settles into my bones, rooting me to the spot. Fighting feels pointless when every battle ends the same way.
I nod, force a brittle smile, and escape to my rooms before anyone can see the tears brimming in my eyes.
I try to lose myself in the routine, changing into something soft and expensive, washing my face, sitting on the edge of the bed with the folder open on my lap. But the day stretches long and empty, and nothing fills the space where my old life used to be.
Dinner comes, inevitable and looming. The table is so long it could seat twenty, but Leon sits next to me, close enough to touch.
The air between us is heavy, thick with things unsaid. He asks about my day in that low, careful voice, as if he’s playing at normal, as if we could ever be ordinary.
I answer in clipped syllables, barely tasting the food. He asks if I found anything interesting in the house. I shrug, not trusting myself to speak, not wanting to let him see how much it rattles me—the photographs, the locked doors, the constant sense of being watched.
He notices, of course. Leon always notices. I can feel his gaze on me, searching, weighing, waiting for me to break or lash out. The urge to snap is a living thing inside me—sharp and mean. I want to throw my glass at the wall, to scream, to demand that he tell me what I am to him now.
Am I a wife, a hostage, a bargaining chip, a victory? I want to ask what he expects from me. Pride keeps me silent. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me hurt.
The dinner drags on. Every shared silence is its own kind of violence, charged with all the questions neither of us is brave enough to ask.
When Leon finally stands, brushing a kiss against my temple, I stiffen, refusing to let myself soften.
He leaves first, and I wait until I’m sure he’s gone before I let myself breathe.
That night, alone in my room, I stare at my reflection in the gilded mirror above the dresser. I look every inch the part: flawless makeup, hair swept back, a dress that fits like it was made for me.
I look like a queen, but I feel like a prisoner. My world has been reduced to a single, beautiful cage. I hate Leon for keeping me here, for making me want him, for knowing me better than anyone else ever tried to.