Chapter 7
ELENA
Iwoke to gentle tapping on my arm.
Not loud. Not demanding. Just small, careful taps—hesitant, as if whoever was touching me was afraid I might vanish if they pressed too hard.
My eyes fluttered open.
At first, everything was haze and warmth.
The room was hot—almost stifling—air thick with the dry hum of a heater working overtime.
White walls glowed faintly amber in the low light, shadows soft instead of sharp. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. My body felt heavy, wrapped in cotton and ache, like I’d been pulled back from somewhere far away.
Then I turned my head.
Yannis was kneeling beside the bed.
His pale face hovered inches from mine, eyes too big for his small features, storm-gray and glossy with unshed tears.
Dark curls stuck up at odd angles, as if he’d been running his hands through them again and again. He looked exhausted—like a child who had stayed awake long past fear because sleeping felt too dangerous.
He tapped my arm again.
This time harder.
Worried.
“I’m awake,” I whispered, my voice hoarse but there. “I’m here.”
Relief flooded his face so fast it hurt to see.
His shoulders sagged, breath rushing out of him in a shaky exhale he hadn’t realized he was holding.
I pushed myself upright slowly.
Pain answered immediately—deep, dull aches along my ribs, a raw burn in my throat, stiffness in my limbs like I’d been folded wrong for hours.
As I moved, memories crashed back in fragments, sharp and disjointed: open graves yawning under moonlight, rain pounding the earth into sludge, blood blooming in dark water, Ruslan’s arms locked around me as he carried me through the storm like I weighed nothing at all.
Somehow—against all logic—I was alive.
I rubbed my eyes, then touched my mouth, my throat, testing. No fresh blood. Just soreness. The voice was fragile but present, as if it might shatter if I pushed it too far.
Yannis’s hand tapped again, more urgent now.
I reached for him and smoothed his hair back from his forehead, fingers tangling in soft curls. “Hey, sweetheart,” I murmured. “I’m okay.”
The lie came out gentle.
He didn’t sign right away.
Instead, he climbed onto the bed with awkward urgency and pressed himself against my side, small arms wrapping tightly around my waist.
His grip was fierce for someone so little—as though letting go would undo me completely.
I wrapped both arms around him and held on.
The heater hummed in the corner, glowing orange, radiating warmth that seeped slowly into my bones.
Someone—Petros, probably—had turned it up high while I slept, as if heat alone could undo hypothermia and terror.
Yannis finally pulled back enough to sign.
His fingers moved quickly, clumsy with emotion.
I was worried when I didn’t see you.
My chest tightened painfully.
I smiled, careful and small, testing my voice again. “I was... on a date with your dad.”
The words tasted strange in my mouth.
His brows furrowed deeply. Did he like you?
A laugh almost escaped me—but it caught halfway and softened into something quieter, almost sad.
“Your dad... and I... we only just met yesterday,” I said, voice trembling slightly. “You... you’re the reason we got married so suddenly... as strangers.”
I reached out, tapping his nose lightly. “I... I think it’ll take time. Time for us... to understand each other... to really get to know one another.”
Maybe even forgive.
Maybe never.
Yannis considered this with the seriousness only children could muster. Then he nodded once, solemn.
He opened his mouth.
The effort was visible—throat working, lips trembling as he forced sound past habit and fear. The words scraped out slow and halting, as though each one had to be pulled free.
“I miss my mom.”
Four words.
Four knives straight into my chest.
I’d read the autopsy reports years ago, hidden deep in old articles and court documents—Maria Baranov, butchered, eight months pregnant. The unborn child stabbed through the tiny chest while still inside her. A brutality that made my stomach turn even now.
Not by me.
Never by me.
I pulled him closer and tucked his head beneath my chin, pressing my cheek to his hair. “I know, baby,” I whispered. “I know.”
He went still, breathing softly against my collarbone. His small body rose and fell, syncing slowly with mine. The room felt suspended—quiet, warm, fragile.
Then, after a long silence, his voice came again. Smaller. Almost afraid.
“Will... will you be... my new mom?”
The question landed gently.
And crushed me all the same.
Like a stone dropped into still water—ripples spreading outward, touching everything I was, everything I wasn’t, everything I could never be.
I swallowed past the ache in my throat, the soreness flaring as if my body wanted to remind me that promises were dangerous things.
“I can try,” I said softly. My voice cracked just a little—enough to betray how much the words mattered. “I can try very hard.”
Yannis nodded against me, small hands clutching the fabric of my shirt as though anchoring himself to the promise.
His fingers curled and uncurled, testing that I was real, that I wasn’t another dream that would dissolve when he woke up.
I kept rocking him, slow and steady, letting silence do what words couldn’t. After a moment, I began to hum—low, almost imperceptible. The melody came without thought, pulled from some deep, unbroken place inside me. My mother’s lullaby. She’d never used words either. Just sound. Just comfort.
My fingers moved in lazy circles over his back, the same rhythm she’d used when I woke screaming from nightmares as a child. I pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of his head and breathed him in—the clean, soapy scent of his shampoo, something citrusy and warm. Alive. Innocent.
For a few precious minutes, the world narrowed to just this: a child held safely, a body no longer freezing, a heartbeat that wasn’t racing toward death.
After a while, he shifted.
He lifted his head, eyes brighter now, the fear eased back just enough to let hope peek through.
Can you take me to school today? he signed.
I blinked. “Take you?”
He nodded eagerly, hands moving with more confidence now. Yes... follow me. Dad’s driver always drives me, but I want you in the car with me. And when we get to school, I want you to walk beside me so my friends can see my new mom.
My chest tightened in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.
He wanted to show me off.
The irony was sharp enough to sting. Less than twelve hours ago, his father had been standing over open graves, deciding whether I deserved to live. And now his son wanted me beside him in daylight, in front of teachers and classmates and parents who lived in a safer world.
“If your dad allows it,” I said carefully, choosing each word like a step across thin ice, “I’ll go with you.”
His face lit up—small, shy, radiant. Okay. I’ll tell him. He’ll agree.
Then, quieter, almost like a fact of nature:
He’ll do anything for me.
I nodded slowly. That much was undeniable. I’d seen the way Ruslan looked at Yannis—like the boy was the last remaining thread tying him to humanity. The one thing he wouldn’t burn, no matter how far he fell.
Yannis stayed curled against me a little longer, his breathing evening out, body growing heavy and warm.
When his grip loosened and his head sagged fully against my chest, I knew he’d fallen asleep again.
Carefully—so carefully—I shifted and lifted him, cradling his small frame as if he were made of glass.
I laid him back on the pillows and pulled the thick duvet over him, tucking it snugly around his shoulders the way my mother used to tuck me in. He sighed in his sleep, lashes dark against pale cheeks, mouth parting just slightly.
I stood there for a moment longer, watching him breathe.
Then I exhaled—long and shaky—and finally stepped away.
The clothes I’d worn last night were stiff with dried mud and rain, heavy with the memory of graves and cold and fear. I needed them off. I needed the night off my skin.
The bathroom was still warm from the heater, steam curling faintly near the ceiling.
I showered slowly, letting the water run hot, almost scalding.
I dried off, then dressed in fresh clothes from the wardrobe: soft gray leggings and a long cream sweater that swallowed my frame and brushed my thighs.
Comfort over elegance. Safety over beauty. I skipped the bra again—the constriction made my chest feel trapped.
My phone buzzed against the glass surface.
The sound made my shoulders tense instantly.
I looked down.
Harris Thompson.
The name sat there like a bruise I hadn’t noticed yet.
I stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, heart sinking into a familiar mix of dread and resignation. Then I answered.
Silence greeted me. Two seconds. Three.
Then his voice came through—tight, clipped, edged with something sharp and offended.
“We should talk,” he said. “About why you chose a total stranger—a devil, no less—over your access to your inheritance.”
I closed my eyes.
“It appears,” he continued coolly, “you no longer need it.”
I sighed, leaning back against the chair, its polished wood cool against my spine.
“You canceled the wedding at the altar,” I said, voice level but tight.
“Humiliated me in front of everyone. You knew how much that ceremony meant to me—how much I needed it. And yet somehow you reconsider after another man steps up?” I let out a hollow laugh.
“You expect me to crawl back because you think I’m that desperate? ”
“Aren’t you?” Harris replied.
His voice was smooth, cultured, wrapped in silk and superiority. The kind of tone that had always made people doubt themselves.
In truth?
Yes.
The clause in my father’s will was a masterpiece of cruelty disguised as tradition: Marry the eldest Thompson son within twelve years of my death or forfeit everything.
Not just money—power. Estates in three countries.
Dividends. Board seats. A permanent income stream that could have lifted me out of survival mode forever.