Chapter 7 #2
I could have been rich. Secure. Untouchable.
Instead, I was here—legally bound to a man who had stood in a graveyard last night and calmly described my death.
I let out a low grunt, pinching the bridge of my nose as a headache bloomed behind my eyes.
“You don’t need to answer,” Harris said. His smug certainty leaked through every syllable. “Divorce him. Let’s finalize our wedding. I have my own stake in this—my inheritance. And I won’t wait forever for your indecision.”
My fingers tightened around the phone until the edges bit into my palm.
“No,” I said quietly. My voice didn’t shake. “I won’t d-divorce Ruslan. And you—stop calling me. I’m ano-another man’s wife now.”
The words tasted like armor. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Necessary.
Inside, I was splintering.
In truth, divorce wasn’t an option anyway.
Ruslan had made that brutally clear. The only thing that will separate you from me is death.
I believed him.
But I also refused to wait around to die.
There had to be a loophole. A legal crack. Some moment of weakness. Something buried in contracts, jurisdictions, or blood feuds that I could pry open.
Running from Ruslan would mean homelessness, poverty, starting over with nothing while my father’s fortune sat locked behind a clause I could no longer fulfill.
No.
I would stay in California. I would survive Ruslan Baranov.
And eventually—somehow—I would still marry Harris and claim what was mine.
Until then...
I let the silence stretch just long enough to make Harris uneasy.
He spoke again, his voice edged with quiet steel.
“Do you understand what’s happening? Every major family that controls California’s underworld—mine included—has aligned against Ruslan Baranov.
He’s an outsider. A foreign power who believes he can step onto this soil and claim it as his own.
That kind of arrogance isn’t tolerated here. Not for long.”
Then, evenly, as if stating an inevitability rather than a threat, he added, “Within days, he and his men will be eliminated.”
I scoffed, a short, sharp laugh. “That’s a fantasy. Men like Ruslan don’t die easily.”
“I’m assuming,” I continued softly, “that’s why you had his son kidnapped.”
The pause on the line stretched.
Too long.
I could almost hear the recalculation—the mental scrambling, the sudden realization that I wasn’t guessing. I was confirming.
Finally, he spoke, slower now. Cautious.
“His son—and everyone around him—are targets. That includes you. I won’t be able to shield you if you insist on remaining his wife.”
“Shield me?” I echoed, bitter, incredulous.
A harsh laugh bubbled up from my chest, though it almost choked me.
“That’s rich. Really rich, coming from the man who told me to sleep with my boss to keep my job—while you were supposed to be my fiancé.
The man who was supposed to care for me.
” My fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening.
“If anything were to happen to you,” he said quietly, each word chosen with care, “my inheritance disappears with you. I can’t afford that. If you decide to leave him—legally or otherwise—I can make it happen. Until then... be careful. Staying where you are isn’t safe.”
He hung up.
My hands should have been shaking. I should have felt panic clawing through my veins.
But instead... I felt calm.
Strangely calm.
Ruslan Baranov might have been a foreigner here, an outsider crashing into a carefully balanced ecosystem of power, an uninvited storm in California’s elite underworld—but I’d seen him last night.
I’d watched him move. The way he’d dismantled Dr. Marcus Hale—methodical, merciless, elegant in its brutality—was a choreography of raw power and controlled fury.
The therapist hadn’t stood a chance.
The five families might think they could overpower him. That he could be outmaneuvered. That their networks, their spies, their assassins could intimidate him.
They were wrong.
He’d underestimated them once—enough for them to reach Yannis.
He would not make that mistake again.
I set the phone down carefully and exhaled, long and slow, letting the tension in my shoulders melt just a fraction.
I turned toward Yannis.
He was still asleep on my bed—small, curled tightly on his side, lashes dark and long against pale, fragile cheeks.
His tiny fingers flexed occasionally, as if dreaming of something ordinary and safe.
He looked impossibly young. Innocent. So unfairly burdened by grief and loss at such a tender age. His mother was gone. His father’s empire a storm of violence and danger. And yet here he slept, as though nothing in the world could touch him.
I stepped away from the bed, careful not to wake him.
The hallway stretched out before me, silent and immaculate.
Marble floors gleamed like still water, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the golden morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Statues, Greek and Roman, stood like silent sentinels in their niches, frozen in poses of heroism, grief, and eternal watchfulness.
I walked slowly, fingertips trailing along the cool walls.
The estate felt infinite, and yet suffocating. Beautiful, yes—but oppressive. Dangerous in its perfection.
I pushed open the tall glass doors to the outside.
The morning air hit my face like a soft, bracing wave—crisp, salty from the Pacific, carrying a whisper of jasmine and rosemary from the estate gardens.
The grounds stretched wide.
In the distance, the ocean shimmered silver-blue.
I turned left, away from the main drive, letting my feet carry me down a winding stone path bordered with lavender and rosemary, the scent clinging to the damp fabric of my sweater.
My mind wandered briefly—back to the graves, the rain, the blood, the brutality of last night—but the estate’s serenity tugged at me, coaxing my pulse to slow.
That’s when I saw them.
A mother elephant and her calf stood in a shaded clearing near the perimeter fence, impossibly still at first, then slowly moving.
The mother was enormous, gray, wise; her skin wrinkled like aged parchment, eyes calm and intelligent.
The calf was clumsy, tiny compared to her, ears flapping, trunk swaying wildly.
The mother held a long sugarcane stalk, lifting it high as though testing her strength. Then she ‘hid’ it behind her ear with a dramatic flourish.
The calf trumpeted in frustration, stretching its trunk, tipping forward slightly before stumbling back.
She made exaggerated chewing motions, lips smacking as if mocking her offspring. The calf froze, trunk drooping, eyes wide in confusion and awe, before she “swallowed” in slow, deliberate mockery.
I couldn’t help but smile, small and fragile. Even amidst the horror of last night, amidst inheritance clauses and blood debts, life persisted here—gentle, absurd, playful.
The elephant mother nudged her calf with her trunk, a silent lesson in patience. The baby squealed, trumpeting in mock protest, and I felt an almost imperceptible lift in my chest.
Then—slowly, deliberately, with a playful glint that felt almost human—the mother elephant brought the sugarcane stalk back out from behind her ear and dangled it inches from her calf’s face.
The baby squealed in unrestrained delight, a high, breathless sound that cut through the quiet morning like laughter.
He lunged forward, uncoordinated, his little legs scrambling in the dirt as he reached.
His trunk wrapped clumsily around his mother’s, tangling with it, holding on as though afraid she might vanish if he let go.
They stood like that—trunks entwined, massive and small, swaying gently together. The mother released a deep rumble from her chest, a sound so low it vibrated the air rather than pierced it. It reminded me of distant thunder rolling across open plains. A sound of reassurance. Of love. Of I am here.
I watched, transfixed.
A small smile tugged at my lips.
How beautiful nature is.
How cruel humans can be.
Footsteps crunched behind me.
Not soft. Not hesitant.
Several sets. Heavy. Purposeful.
The sound pulled me out of the moment like a blade sliding between ribs. I turned slowly, my body already bracing for whatever came next.
Petros led four men down the path toward the enclosure. All were dressed in dark suits despite the morning sun, their movements efficient, eyes sharp, posture unmistakably trained. They stopped when they saw me, boots halting in unison on the gravel.
“Good morning, Mrs. Baranov,” one of them said quietly, respectfully.
The title hit me like cold water.
Mrs. Baranov.
It felt formal. Alien. As though it belonged to someone else—someone harder, colder, more prepared for this world than I was.
I nodded stiffly and stepped aside as they continued past me toward the elephants. Something in my chest tightened, instinctive and immediate.
I followed at a distance.
Petros spoke in a low voice to the others—controlled, professional—but enough carried on the wind that I caught fragments.
“...documentation is complete...”
“...the new owner would like it.”
One of the men gestured toward the calf.
The words slammed into me.
The new owner.
Selling it.
My stomach twisted violently, nausea rolling up my throat.
I stepped closer, heart pounding.
“Excuse me... Mr. Petros?”
All five men turned at once.
Petros met my eyes, his expression calm, unreadable, his face a mask honed by years of service to a man who tolerated no weakness.
“Does this elephant belong to...” I hesitated, the word catching. “...my husband?”
A ripple passed through the group—subtle but unmistakable. One man lifted his brows. Another shot a quick glance sideways, curiosity flickering before being smothered.
Petros did not react.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said evenly.
I swallowed hard.
“I don’t want you to take the baby from its mother,” I said. My voice didn’t rise. It didn’t shake. It surprised even me. “Look at them. They’re bonded. It will break her heart.”
Petros’s lips curved slightly—not into a smile, but something close to amusement. Or perhaps resignation.