Chapter 9 Adriana
ADRIANA
They don’t look at me when they walk me back to my room.
Three of them. All aunts. All Volkova women.
One gathers the sheets. The other adjusts the robe around my shoulders, tighter than I need it. The third hovers with a plastic smile, as if that makes any of this normal.
They don’t speak about what just happened. They don’t have to. The bed behind me has already been stripped.
“Well,” one says, finally. Her voice is amused. “At least you did your duty.”
Another snorts. “I thought she’d cry. The quiet ones always do.”
I say nothing. I don’t give them what they want. Because I did this.
I knew I was playing a dangerous game. I don’t know what possessed me to put that thing on.
The baby doll is still draped over the back of a chair. Thin straps, lace at the hem, a color that looked innocent when I pulled it from the bed but didn’t feel innocent at all once I put it on.
Maybe I just meant to taunt him. Maybe I wanted a reaction out of him, the way this whole marriage was meant to humiliate me.
I thought it would give me control. Or the illusion of it.
But once he looked at me, it didn’t feel like a taunt anymore.
I’ve never been the kind of girl men want. Not in the way Julianne was. They noticed her in every room, offered to carry her bags, brought her drinks she didn’t ask for. She barely had to try. I always tried too hard. Or not at all.
I’m not beautiful. I’ve always known that.
But when he looked at me, I felt like I was. Not pretty, not delicate. Just seen. Like I couldn’t hide.
And for one stupid second, I wanted to be seen like that again.
By him.
I don’t know what that says about me.
Now I’m back in this room that isn’t mine, wearing a robe that isn’t mine, replaying every second like it meant something. Maybe it didn’t.
Maybe it was just duty. Maybe he’ll never touch me again.
But I can still feel the way his hands gripped my hips. The way his mouth dragged down my neck like he wanted to mark something permanent.
I started something, and I don’t know how to end it. Because if I meant to push him away, why does part of me hope he comes back?
The room is cold. Not from the temperature, but from the way it’s laid out.
No rugs. No photographs. No flowers or books or anything soft. The walls are bare except for a single painting, dark and abstract, like someone tried to scrub feeling out of it.
The bed is king-sized, but the sheets are military neat, tucked in like someone expects to be judged. The pillows are the kind you buy in bulk. Nothing here was chosen with comfort in mind.
I open the wardrobe. It’s mostly black suits, pressed white shirts, a few ties still in their packaging. There’s one shelf with folded sweaters, gray and navy, not a single warm color among them. It’s all clean, sterile, masculine.
This is his room.
And now it’s mine too.
I take the phone that’s been left for me and step into the smaller room, closing the door behind me. It smells faintly of dust and cedar, like it hasn’t been used in years. I sit on the edge of the bed and turn the phone over in my hands. Black, older model, but not ancient.
When I power it on, the home screen is blank. No photos, no messages, no apps beyond the basics. Wiped clean.
Of course. He’s not stupid enough to hand me something I can use against him.
Still, it’s an iPhone. Same as my old one. There’s even a SIM already in it.
I type in my Apple ID and wait. The familiar login screen feels like a lifeline. The first thing I do is locate my old phone. The map shows it—still active, still at the brownstone. I swipe to erase it completely. If my father thought he could go through it, that chance is gone now.
Only then do I pull up the backup. I stare at the spinning icon for what feels like hours, but when the home screen fills with my old layout, my photos, my contacts, my messages, it feels like breathing after holding my breath too long.
I scroll through my contacts, stopping at a few familiar names. Bella. Julie. Julianne. A couple of numbers from my work that might still be useful.
This smaller bedroom doesn’t have a bathroom. I stare at the bare walls, then at the door that connects to his. I could wait until morning, but I don’t want to.
I turn the handle quietly and step inside.
Dante is sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to me, shirtless. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Pale lines cross his skin—long, narrow, some faint, others more recent. They don’t look like accidents.
I stand there for a second too long, wondering what could have left marks like that.
“I—uh—I need to use the bathroom,” I say. My voice makes him turn, his eyes locking on mine. In the same motion, he reaches for a shirt draped over the bed and pulls it on.
“My room doesn’t have one,” I add, feeling sheepish now that I’ve been caught staring.
He just points toward the door across the room.
I cross quickly, close the bathroom door behind me, and take my time. When I come out, I’ve changed into the only clean top I have left from my bag—a faded pink Hello Kitty shirt I wear to sleep.
He glances up once, takes in the shirt, then goes back to his phone.
“Can I go see my friend tomorrow?” I ask.
Without looking at me, he says, “Why don’t you invite her here?”
It’s not an offer. It’s a reminder that in this place, my freedom still depends on him.