Chapter 7 Adriana
ADRIANA
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER…
The room hasn’t changed. Same faded wallpaper, same crooked bookshelf, same smell of dust and lavender that’s been sitting here for years. I’ve tried everything—the window, the balcony latch, even kicking the bottom panel of the door like I used to when I was a kid. Nothing moves.
The lock outside is new. Strong.
The door creaks open and Misha slips inside, balancing a plate of food and a glass of water. He glances over his shoulder before shutting the door.
“You should eat,” he says, setting the food down on my desk.
That’s when I see the small marks on his hands—thin, raw lines, like he grabbed something that fought back.
“Misha…”
He avoids my eyes, tugging his sleeve lower. “Dad’s been…scary.” His voice is almost a whisper.
He doesn’t have to tell me. I grew up in the same house, under the same shadow. I know what it feels like to measure every word, every movement, in case it’s the wrong one.
And I left him here. Left both of them here. I told myself I was running for my life, but the truth is I ran and left my siblings to deal with the fallout. The guilt has been sitting on me for years, heavy as stone.
He nudges the plate closer. “Eat. Please.”
I watch him for a moment, but he’s already backing toward the door. He slips out without another word.
The hours stretch until the door opens again. This time it’s my mother. She steps in quickly, closing it behind her, and for a second she just looks at me like she’s trying to place me back in this room.
“Do you know where she is?” I ask before she can start whatever speech she’s come to give. “Julianne. Do you know who she’s with?”
Her gaze drops to her hands. “She ran off,” she says quietly. “With one of your father’s men. She thought she was in love.”
“Maybe she was,” I answer before I can stop myself.
That makes her head snap up, her gaze sharp and almost panicked. “Don’t you see? There’s no place for love in our lives.”
Her words hang there, pressing the air out of the room.
I want to tell her she’s wrong, that there has to be more than this—more than deals and threats and empty promises. But standing here, locked in my childhood bedroom, I can’t think of a single piece of evidence to prove it.
“He’ll kill us all if you don’t walk down the aisle,” my mother says, her voice low but shaking. “Do you want Misha dead? Because that’s what will happen. He’ll hunt us down—every last one of us.”
I take a step toward her. “Who is he?”
She meets my eyes, and for the first time, I see real fear there. “Dante,” she says. “Dante Volkov.”
Before I can ask another question, she slips out and shuts the door behind her. The lock clicks, sealing me inside.
Present day…
I watch my husband.
His profile is turned to the window, attention fixed on the blur of the city giving way to wider roads. He looks calm. Removed. Like I’m not sitting less than five feet away.
My fingers rise to my mouth before I can stop them. The kiss is still there, bright and strange, like a match struck in a dark room. For a moment I feel it again, the heat, the pull I did not plan for. I drop my hand to my lap and lace my fingers together.
There is no ring on my hand. We skipped that part. He didn’t offer one. The priest kept his eyes on the book and moved us along as if vows alone were weight enough.
He doesn’t look at me.
Is he disappointed? Probably. I look nothing like Julianne. Maybe that’s why he agreed to a replacement. Maybe he thought I would be half as pretty as my sister and easy to ignore once the doors closed.
I fold my arms across my ribs and hold myself small. It’s an old habit. It makes the world feel quieter.
He speaks to the driver in a low voice and the car settles into a steadier rhythm. He still doesn’t look.
I tell myself this is better. Easier to think if I’m invisible. Easier to plan.
The road curves and the light cuts across his face. The memory of his mouth pulls at me again. I press my palm to my knee and breathe until it fades.
“Can I see your phone?” I ask.
He turns his head a little, eyes flicking over my face as if there’s a trap in the question. He hesitates, then reaches into his jacket and hands it to me unlocked.
“Thank you,” I say, casual, like I only want to pass the time.
I open the browser and scroll the headlines. The car hums. The city thins to bare trees and wide lanes. Halfway down the page I see it.
Serrano. Arrested.
The photo is grainy, late-night flash burn on a face that always thought it was untouchable.
My pulse jumps so hard I feel it in my throat.
I keep my expression still. I angle the screen away, skim the copy, note the charges, the time stamp, the mention of a tip that “accelerated” the investigation.
I breathe once, slow, and lock the phone. “Thanks,” I say, and pass it back.
He studies me for a beat, then pockets it. “Find what you needed?”
“Enough.”
We ride in quiet after that. Hedges rise on either side of the road.
The sky opens a little. A set of iron gates appears ahead, black and clean, a discreet V worked into the metal.
The driver speaks into a mic clipped near the visor, the gates slide back, and we pull onto a long paved drive that curves through old trees and winter-brown lawns.
The Volkov house sits at the end like it has been there longer than the road. Stone, slate roof, tall windows that catch what light there is. Not ostentatious. Confident. The kind of place built to last, then wired later with cameras so small you only see them if you know where to look.
There’s a garden off to the left, squared with low boxwood and bare rose canes. A line of pines screens the property from whatever lies beyond. I count doors without meaning to. Front. Side. Terrace. Service. The driveway widens into a circle under a portico, and the car stops.
The front door opens before we reach it. His mother stands there with two women in dark dresses and a man in a suit who is not security but moves like he could be. She’s the only one who smiles. It’s small and real. Her hand lifts in greeting.
“Welcome,” she says as we step from the car. “Come inside. You must be cold.”
The entry is warm without being loud. Polished wood. A wide staircase. A runner soft enough to swallow footsteps. Somewhere deeper in the house, I hear quiet voices and the clink of plates. A fire snaps in a room to the right and carries the clean smell of pine.
“You will want a room to breathe,” his mother says to me, gentle. She touches my palm, just a light press, then nods to a woman beside her. “Elena will show you upstairs. I will send tea.”
Dante answers for us both. “We will be in the east wing.”
I glance up the staircase and map the turn in my head. Windows along the landing. A gallery at the top. Hall long enough to hide in if you know how to move.
Liam appears from a side corridor, hair a little windblown, grin intact. “Home sweet home,” he says. “We made sure the heat works. That’s my wedding gift.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, and he actually looks pleased.
Dante rests a hand at my back. Not a push. Not even a guide. Just a point of contact that says move and I do, because standing still in someone else’s house is a way to disappear.
As we start up the stairs I look back once through the open door. The drive curves out of sight between the trees. The gates are closed again. The estate feels quiet in a way that could be peaceful if you belonged to it.
I start to plan. Where the phones will be. Where the garden wall sits closest to the road. Which window faces the trees and which faces the gate.
“Tea in ten minutes,” his mother calls up to us.
“Thank you,” I answer, and keep climbing.
By the time we come back downstairs, the house feels settled. Lamps are on, the fire in the front room is low, and someone has set out tea with lemon and a plate of small, perfect cakes. Dante walks beside me.
His mother meets us in the doorway with a soft smile and guides me in with a touch to my arm.
A few Volkov relatives have gathered. Two uncles and a cousin, a woman whose perfume arrives a second before she does. Dante’s father sits near the hearth, chair angled so he can see the room without turning his head.
“Adriana,” his mother says, “this is Viktor and Pavel.” She gestures to the uncles. “And Irina.”
“Welcome,” Irina says, studying me as if I might crack.
I take the seat nearest the tea. “Thank you.”
Viktor tips his cup at me. “Different bride than expected. Strange day for all of us.”
“Strange days happen,” I say. “We still have to stand up in them.”
Pavel gives a short laugh. “You speak like someone who learned fast.”
“I had to.”
Dante’s father watches me with that measuring look I’m starting to recognize. He sets his cup down with care. “Your family did not prepare you well,” he says. “Petrovs have always preferred appearances to substance. Your father most of all.”
The room goes very quiet. I feel Dante go still beside me. His mother’s hand lifts a fraction, as if she might reach for my shoulder, then settles back into her lap.
I keep my voice even. “My father has many faults. I will not argue that.”
A smile touches the corner of the old man’s mouth, pleased with what he thinks is compliance.
I take the cup his wife poured me and add a wedge of lemon. “But appearances are useful only when there is power behind them. Both families know this.”
Viktor shifts in his chair. Irina’s chin lifts a degree. No one looks at Dante’s father, but I can feel the attention move toward him all the same.
He leans back. “Do not mistake our patience for softness.”
“I would not,” I say. “And I would not mistake my silence for agreement either.”
Pavel clears his throat. “She has a point, Sergei.”
So that is his name. Sergei Volkov.
He studies me again. “What do you call agreement then?”
“Standing where you put me,” I say, “but not mistaking it for compliance.”
A small sound from Irina, surprise or approval. Liam appears in the doorway, hears the tone, and slides in against the molding like a man ready to fetch a fire extinguisher.
Sergei lifts his cup again. “Your father would have argued.”
“My father enjoys the sound of his own voice.” I meet his eyes. “I prefer results.”
The tea is good. Hot, with just enough lemon to cut the sweetness of the cake I’ve been working on for the last five minutes.
“In our family,” he says, “it’s important the bride and groom…spend time together, right away.” He lifts his cup, like it’s nothing more than a toast.
Irina nods, smiling in that polite, hostess way. “It’s tradition. Brings…peace.”
I take another bite of cake, barely listening. My eyes drift to the fire, the low murmur of voices almost comforting. “I’m sorry,” I say after a beat. “I didn’t follow all of that. We’re together.”
Dante leans in, his voice low, almost amused. “They’re talking about us. Tonight, the marriage has to be consummated.”
I blink at him, chew once, twice—then it hits me.
My teeth catch the lemon rind, the thought landing fully in my head. My throat works on reflex, but the bite is too big, too dry. I cough once, then give up and cover my mouth with a napkin, laughing a little despite myself.
Liam’s head snaps toward me. “You all right?”
“Wrong pipe,” I say quickly, though I can feel my face warming.
I set the cake down. I’ve lost interest in sweet things.
Dante pushes his chair back and stands. A few eyes lift toward us, but no one says anything. They don’t have to. The air has changed. He doesn’t say a word, but I understand.
I stand too. My napkin folded, placed on the edge of the plate.
In the bedroom, there is something on the bed I didn’t notice at first. Lingerie, a white baby doll, thin as breath, laid out on the folded sheet like someone was arranging a display. Beneath it, the bed is made with snow-white linens.
My stomach turns. “This is sick.” I look at the sheets, then at the door. “They want proof.”
Dante follows my gaze. His voice stays even. “That is not expected.”
I blink. “What does that mean?”
Silence. The fire answers for him with a soft crack.
“You don’t think I’m a virgin,” I say.
He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t deny it. He just holds my eyes, steady, as if the truth is something I can keep for myself if I want to.
I lift the babydoll by two fingers. Lace and air. I scoff before I can stop myself. “Why? Because I left home?”
“Are you?” he asks.
“Not the point.”
I take it with me and walk to the bathroom. He says, “You don’t have to wear it,” as the door clicks behind me.
I hate it. Not just because they expect me to wear it, but because it was never really about wearing anything. It’s about playing along.
He’s wrong. This isn’t about tradition or expectations. This is about humiliation.
Dress her up like a bride. Parade her into a bedroom. Lay out the costume, the sheets, the doll. Give her the illusion of choice and then remind her of the price.
No matter how warm his mother’s voice sounds, or how Liam jokes, or how polite they all pretend to be—this is what it’s really about.
Power.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on the sink. The porcelain is cold. I breathe.
You wanted to come back. You thought you could fix things. Find Julianne. Find the truth.
But this is what they do. They remind you you’re not in control. Not really. This isn’t just a performance. This is punishment.
They don’t want proof. They want shame. They want me in my place, knees together, eyes lowered. Like I should’ve stayed.
He wants to humiliate me.
Let him try.
He’ll see what I’m about.