Chapter 8 #6
And if my father could drive through a blizzard to save my lungs...
If he could plan an entire birthday just to see me smile...
Then what had he become?
Or worse—
Had he always been this way, and I’d only seen what he wanted me to see?
The thought hollowed me out.
Loving my father had never been simple. It had always felt conditional, precarious, like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and convincing myself the ground was solid.
I was eleven when I learned how quickly his affection could curdle into cruelty.
It had been one of his rare “family dinners,” the kind that felt more ceremonial than warm.
The long table gleamed under soft lighting, crystal glasses aligned with obsessive precision, silverware polished until it reflected our faces back at us.
He poured himself a drink in his favorite whiskey glass—an antique passed down from his grandfather, treated less like an object and more like a relic.
I reached for the salt.
My elbow clipped the stem.
The glass tipped, teetered, then shattered against the marble floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.
Silence swallowed the room.
Then his face twisted, veins standing out along his neck as rage flooded him in an instant. “You clumsy little idiot!” he roared, slamming his fist against the table so hard the plates rattled. His hand closed around my arm before I could even apologize, fingers biting deep enough to bruise.
He dragged me down the hallway, my feet barely touching the floor, and shoved me into my room. The door slammed. The lock turned.
No explanation. No comfort. No dinner.
I sat there for hours, staring at the walls, listening to the muffled sounds of the house continuing without me. That night stayed with me—not because it was the worst thing he’d ever done, but because it showed me how quickly love could be revoked. How fragile safety really was.
And yet—even with memories like that—I’d never thought him utterly heartless.
Not until now.
Not until this marriage forced upon me like a sentence. Not until I realized my entire life had been manipulated, every path quietly redirected by his hand.
Ruslan’s voice yanked me back into the present.
Cold. Measured. Final.
“Since you refuse to fulfill your duties as my wife,” he said, tone devoid of emotion, “we leave for Greece tomorrow. You will live there permanently, by my side—where no one can reach you but me.”
The words struck like a physical blow.
I surged to my feet, the room spinning as panic slammed into my chest. “No... no,” I whispered, shaking my head as if denial alone could undo his decree. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
I’d imagined leaving California someday—fantasized about it in quieter moments. A small town. A clean slate. Somewhere anonymous.
But Greece?
An ocean away. A language I didn’t speak. No friends. No escape.
That wasn’t relocation.
That was exile.
“Please,” I said, my voice breaking. “Anything but that.”
Fear clawed at me, sharp and unrelenting, stripping away pride, dignity, every shred of restraint.
I crawled across the space between us, knees scraping against the rough carpet, body trembling.
My hands reached for him—not with longing, not with trust—but with a raw, desperate need, a plea that had no words, only the silent scream of someone on the edge of everything they could endure.
“You want obedience?” I whispered hoarsely. “Fine.”
Shame burned my throat, but terror burned hotter.
“I’ll give you what you want.”
I barely registered his movement before his hand closed around my wrist, firm and absolute, halting me instantly. His other hand lifted my chin, forcing my gaze upward.
His eyes were dark, stormy, unreadable.
“Stop,” he said sharply.
The command froze me.
Fear surged, sharp and breathless, as I stared up at him.
“Please,” I whispered. “I don’t want to leave the United States.
” The words spilled out in a rush. “We can go somewhere else. Another city. Somewhere far from California. Somewhere the five families won’t follow. Las Vegas. Chicago. Anywhere.”
My voice cracked.
“Just not Greece,” I begged. “That’s not starting over. That’s erasing me.”
He studied me for a long moment, head tilted slightly, grip steady but controlled.
“So,” he said quietly, “you are willing to sacrifice yourself to stay.”
“Yes,” I breathed, the answer escaping before I could think. “I’ll do whatever you want, Ruslan. Whatever it takes.”
My voice was small. Frightened.
“Just don’t take me that far away.”
The silence that followed was electric.
He studied me for a long, unnerving moment, his gaze stripping away every layer of pretense.
His thumb brushed along my jawline—slow, almost absentminded—as though he were testing the reality of me, confirming I was solid and not some illusion born of grief and rage.
Then, without warning, he asked, “What’s your body count?”
I blinked, my thoughts stumbling over the phrase. My pulse spiked. “My... what?”
A faint crease appeared between his brows. “Don’t insult my intelligence,” he said, impatience threading his voice. “How many men have you slept with?”
Heat rushed violently to my face, crawling down my neck. The question felt invasive, humiliating—but more than that, it felt dangerous. I shook my head hard, almost violently. “None,” I said. Then, quieter, steadier, because the truth deserved clarity. “With my consent.”
The word landed between us like shattered glass.
He went utterly still.
His fingers loosened on my chin as though the admission had burned him. Slowly—deliberately—he guided my hand away, his touch no longer iron-hard but cautious, controlled.
My heart was pounding so hard I was certain he could hear it. Fear still lived in my bones.
My gaze dropped to the carpet beneath us, its intricate patterns blurring as my knees began to ache.
I swallowed and forced the words out anyway. “I’ll accept whatever punishment you decide,” I said hoarsely. “Whatever consequences you think I deserve. But please—don’t take me away from my country. Don’t erase what little of my life I have left.”
Silence pressed in.
Then he asked, quietly, “Have you ever loved a man?”
The question caught me off guard.
Still kneeling, head bowed, I hesitated. My chest tightened as the truth rose up, uninvited.
I nodded once. Small. Almost imperceptible.
“Who?”
I lifted my head slowly, inch by inch, until our faces were level. We were close enough now that I could feel the warmth of his breath, see the faint scar along his jaw I hadn’t noticed before.
My voice trembled—but it didn’t shatter.
“You.”
His lips curved into a sharp, humorless smirk. “Do I look like a man in the mood for flattery, Elena?”
“I’m not joking,” I burst out, frustration cracking through my fear.
“I don’t even know if what I feel qualifies as love.
I’ve never felt it before. But I don’t hate you like I should.
I find you—” I faltered, then forced myself onward.
“I find you attractive. My heart races when you’re near, like it’s trying to escape my chest. I don’t understand it, and I don’t trust it—but it’s real. ”
He leaned back slightly, studying me with narrowed eyes. “We’ve known each other for forty-eight hours,” he said coolly. “In that time, I’ve shown you cruelty. Contempt. Control. And you claim to feel something for me?”
“Maybe it isn’t love,” I admitted, my shoulders sagging under the weight of honesty. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had the chance to learn what love looks like.”
The words spilled out then, unstoppable.
“My life ended before it really began,” I continued.
“I dropped out of high school just before I turned fifteen—right after my parents died in that plane crash. Twisted metal. Shattered glass. One moment they were alive, the next... gone. And with them went everything normal. No dances. No crushes. No first kisses or awkward relationships or stupid teenage mistakes.”
I swallowed, my throat tight.
“From then on, it was survival. Scrubbing motel bathrooms until my hands cracked and bled. Washing dishes in diners that smelled like grease and despair. Flipping burgers, sorting trash, doing anything—anything—to keep myself fed. I never had the luxury of romance, Ruslan. Or choice.”
I looked up at him again, my eyes burning but dry.
“So if what I feel for you is wrong, or misplaced, or foolish... it’s because I’ve never known anything else. You’re the first man who’s ever made me feel anything at all.”
The room fell silent once more.
And this time, the quiet wasn’t threatening.
It was dangerous in an entirely different way.
My voice wavered, but I forced myself to keep going.
“There was never a place I could call home in the past ten years, Ruslan.”
A hollow laugh escaped me, brittle and sharp, like glass breaking in the quiet room.
“My father’s lawyer... he blocked me from the house within days of my parents’ funeral.
Something about legal loopholes, inheritance papers I didn’t understand, signatures I’d never given.
Overnight... I went from grieving daughter to unwanted trespasser.
Security escorted me out like I was nothing more than a thief, a stranger in my own bloodline. ”
I swallowed hard, my throat raw from reliving it. “And the worst part? No one cared. Not my aunt, not my so-called family, not the world that should have protected me. I was left alone... utterly alone. That’s been my life ever since.”
The memory burned.
I wrapped my arms around myself, as if the room had suddenly grown colder.
I swallowed.
I met his gaze again, steady now.
“I’m not telling you this to earn pity,” I said. “I just need you to understand something. Fate never gave me room for romance. Or softness. Or choice.”
I exhaled slowly.
“The men who came onto me at work? Supervisors. Coworkers. Customers who thought exhaustion meant desperation. I felt nothing. No spark. No curiosity. Just... numbness. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe I shut that part of myself down too young.”