Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Noelle
"Ma'am, it's time to wake up."
The maid's gentle voice pulled me from unconsciousness. I opened my eyes to curtains already drawn, sunlight streaming in with the snow outside, the brightness stabbing at my eyes.
Everything hurt. My wrists bore dark purple marks where he'd gripped them, my fingers too stiff to move properly.
The bite on my chest burned, a constant reminder of last night's humiliation.
I lay curled on the chaise lounge, staring out at the monotonous snow within these high walls, feeling like a caged bird.
"Ma'am?" The maid called again, worry creeping into her voice.
"I heard you." My voice came out hoarse, barely recognizable. "Draw me a bath."
She hesitated, then nodded and headed toward the bathroom.
The sheets beside me were cold. Kholod had been gone for hours. He was like a storm—devastating everything in his path, then vanishing without a trace, leaving only wreckage behind.
I struggled to sit up, every movement pulling at my wounds. Walking to the mirror, I stared at the stranger looking back—pale face, lifeless eyes, neck and collarbone covered in telltale marks.
And that bite on my chest, already scabbing but still horrific to look at.
I reached out to touch it gently. Sharp pain made me gasp.
Kholod Morozov.
What exactly do you need to do to me before you'll let me go?
Lunch was brought by Darya—I'd only learned the name of this maid who'd been with me since entering the manor today. That afternoon, I sat by the bedroom window, flipping through a geography magazine—Kholod's only allowance for mental escape after shutting down my blog.
Suddenly, a knock at the door. "Ma'am, please come to the living room."
I opened the door, confused. Daniel waited respectfully outside.
I followed him downstairs, hearing a maid say, "This way, please."
In the living room, several men and women in elegant suits directed assistants carrying gift boxes branded with luxury logos—Chanel, Dior, Hermès, Van Cleef & Arpels...
"Mrs. Morozov, hello." A woman who looked like a manager approached with a perfect smile. "Mr. Morozov ordered this season's complete collection for you. Are you available for fittings now?"
I stared at those towering boxes, nausea rising from my stomach.
This was compensation, wasn't it? His way of gilding brutality with money.
"No need." My voice was cold. "Just leave them there."
"But ma'am..." The manager looked troubled. "Mr. Morozov specifically requested we ensure every piece fits properly..."
"I said no." I cut her off, turning to leave.
Just then, Anastasia emerged from the study. She glanced at the items in the living room, her expression unreadable.
"Take these to her bedroom," she told the butler, her voice calm but brooking no argument.
I stood halfway up the stairs, watching them begin moving everything, emotions churning inside me.
Anastasia looked up at me, her gaze loaded with meaning—assessing, evaluating.
Anya returned from outside, saw the scene, jealousy flashing in her eyes before turning to mockery.
"Wow," she deliberately raised her voice, "looks like someone's really good at pleasing my brother. So many gifts—your methods are impressive."
"Anya." Anastasia's voice carried a warning.
"I'm just stating facts." Anya shrugged, walking to the pile of boxes and casually opening a Hermès one. "Birkin, and Himalayan too. Noelle, you're really lucky."
I ignored her and headed upstairs.
"Noelle." Anastasia suddenly called out.
I turned and nodded. "Yes?"
"Men express affection in ways that can be... difficult to accept," her expression was inscrutable, "but you must learn to value it."
"Yes, thank you for the guidance." I curtsied politely, not taking her words to heart at all.
Back in the bedroom, the jewelry had been properly arranged in the vanity's jewelry cabinet, and Darya was directing several maids in organizing the clothes. Looking at them, I felt only deep revulsion.
Did he think this could erase everything? That money could buy my compliance?
I sat on the bed's edge, picking up the new phone Kholod had given me—strictly limited functions, contacts containing only a few people, including my mother and Isabella, whom I'd added myself.
As I stared at the phone, it suddenly rang.
Sofia.
I hesitated for a few seconds, then finally answered.
"Noelle!" My mother's voice came through, barely containing her urgency. "You finally answered! You haven't been returning my messages, I thought..."
"I'm fine, Mother." I cut her off, my voice weary.
"Good." She sighed with relief, then immediately shifted topics. "Noelle, I heard the Morozov family has a big dock project. Could you mention it to Kholod, get us involved? Even just a small piece..."
I closed my eyes, helplessness washing over me.
"Mother..."
"I know it's difficult, but Noelle, you're a Morozov now. You need to learn to use that position." Her voice carried natural expectation. "All that education you received—wasn't it for this day? Did you learn what I taught you last time? You need to learn to please your husband, make him..."
"Enough." I interrupted, suppressed anger in my voice. "Mom, I'm not your tool for profit."
"What are you saying?" Her voice rose. "I'm your mother! This is for your own good, for our family! Noelle, you have to understand—only Kholod can save us now..."
"Then go beg him yourself. Don't go through me."
"Noelle!"
I hung up.
The phone immediately rang again. I hit decline.
She called again.
I turned it off.
The room fell silent again. Sitting on the bed's edge, I felt like a doll being torn apart from all directions.
Kholod wanted me to be the perfect wife.
Mother wanted me to save the family.
But no one asked who I wanted to be.
I stood and wandered aimlessly around the room, entering the walk-in closet to look at those luxurious things. They lay there quietly, like elegant shackles.
I didn't want to touch any of them.
For the next three days, I barely left my room.
Anastasia didn't mention learning rules again, as if she'd forgotten I existed. Anya rarely appeared either. When we occasionally met at meals, she'd just glance at me without much conversation. I welcomed the peace.
At night, I curled up on the sofa by the bedroom fireplace, reading my geography magazine. This issue focused on Northern Europe, with extensive coverage of Norway's fjords.
I stared at those photos, imagining myself standing in that pure landscape, breathing cold, free air.
If I could escape this place...
If I could regain freedom...
Just as I lost myself in fantasy, the door suddenly burst open.
I startled, the magazine sliding to the floor.
Kholod stood in the doorway, still wearing his outdoor coat, carrying the chill and cigar scent with him.
He was back.
His gaze swept the room before settling on me.
"What are you wearing?" His voice was calm, yet sent chills through me.
I looked down at myself—still that plain cotton dress, simple and modest, though it clashed completely with this luxurious manor.
"Is there a problem?" I asked back.
He didn't answer, walking straight into the closet. Moments later, he emerged carrying a deep blue silk nightgown embroidered with delicate lace.
"Put this on." He tossed the dress beside me.
I picked it up but didn't move.
"I said, put it on," he repeated, impatience creeping into his voice.
"I don't like silk," I said calmly. "It's slippery and cold."
"I don't care what you like." He stepped closer, his eyes turning dangerous. "I only care whether you obey."
"What if I don't?" I looked up, meeting his gaze.
I didn't know why I had the courage.
Maybe it was these days of suppression and humiliation that made me unable to continue submitting.
Maybe it was Mother's call that made me realize—if I didn't fight for myself, I'd forever remain just someone else's tool.
He narrowed his eyes, dangerous energy radiating from him.
The next second, he grabbed my arm violently, yanking me up and slamming me against the wall.
"You're challenging me?" His voice was low, suppressing rage.
"I'm just expressing my opinion." I gritted my teeth, though my arm ached from his grip. "I'm your wife, not your doll."
"Wife?" He laughed coldly. "Noelle, get this straight—everything you have now, including the clothes on your back, I gave you. Think about your crumbling family. What makes you think you can negotiate with me?"
His words were like a knife, stabbing straight into my heart.
"Yes, the Bellucci family is declining, I have no right to negotiate," my voice began shaking, "but that doesn't mean you can treat me like property!"
"Property?" He gripped my chin, forcing me to look at him. "You're worth much more than property."
Before the words finished, his other hand grabbed my collar.
"Rip—"
The fabric tore from neckline to hem, exposing my undergarments.
"You're insane!" I struggled hard but couldn't budge him an inch.
He remained unmoved, watching me with almost glacial eyes. "Remember, you're mine. Everything about you, from your hair to your toes, only I get to adorn."
He picked up the dress, roughly pulling it over me.
The icy touch made me shudder all over.
"Kholod Morozov, what gives you the right to treat me this way?!" I finally couldn't help shouting, tears bursting forth. "Who do you think you are?!"
My challenge seemed to ignite his long-suppressed fury.
He backed me into the corner step by step, his overwhelming presence making it hard to breathe.
"What gives me the right?" He repeated my words, dangerous light flashing in his eyes. "Because you're a Morozov now. Because your reunion with Lorenzo made me the laughingstock of all Philadelphia."
"There's nothing between us!" I was practically screaming. "I've explained this countless times!"
"Explain?" He sneered, leaning closer. "Your explanations are worthless against evidence."
He suddenly kissed me, teeth biting down hard on my lower lip, the taste of blood filling my mouth.
I tried to resist, but he pinned me down completely.
In the struggle, my bra was torn open, exposing my chest to his view.
Kholod's movements suddenly stopped.
He stared at the bite mark near my nipple, something complex flashing in his eyes before being replaced by deeper fury.
"It's healing," he said quietly, as if talking to himself. "Soon it'll be gone."
He released me, walking to the nightstand and pulling open a drawer.
I leaned against the wall, panting, dread rising in my heart.
He pulled out a small box. Inside was a tattoo kit—needles, ink, disinfectant.
"What are you doing?" Terror filled me as I edged toward the door—I wanted to run.
He didn't answer, catching up in a few steps and dragging me back to the sofa, using his knee to pin my legs so I couldn't move.
"No!" I fought desperately. "Kholod! You can't..."
"I can." He cut me off, taking out a disinfectant wipe to clean the wound on my chest. "This mark will fade, but I can give you one that never will."
"Please..." My voice broke with tears. "Don't do this..."
He ignored me completely.
The moment the cold needle pierced my skin, sharp pain shot through the already sensitive area.
"Ah—Kholod! Let me go!"
"Quiet." He said coldly. "This is just the beginning."
Tears blurred my vision. I could feel the needle puncturing my skin over and over, each stab accompanied by excruciating pain. I couldn't help crying out in agony, so he simply sealed my mouth with a kiss.
He was carving his name into my body.
Time felt endless.
When the final needle pierced, I was trembling from crying, breathless from his kiss.
Kholod set down the needle, gently wiping the red, swollen skin with a cotton ball. His fingers and the cold cotton inevitably brushed over the tip, the tingling and pain causing another shudder.
I looked down, and where the bite mark had been, two clear Cyrillic letters were now branded: "H.M."
Kholod Morozov.
"This," he caressed that patch of skin, his voice full of satisfaction, "will never fade."
I closed my eyes, tears falling silently.
He'd won.
In the cruelest way possible, he'd completely made me his possession.
That night, Kholod sat by the bed for a long time, quietly watching me.
I curled up on the other side, my back to him.
"Does it still hurt?" he suddenly asked.
I didn't answer.
After a long while, he stood and walked to the door.
"Rest now," he said. "Starting tomorrow, Mother will teach you proper behavior. Don't disappoint me again."
The sound of the door closing was especially harsh in the silent room.
I turned over, staring at the ceiling.
My hand unconsciously touched that red, swollen patch of skin on my chest.
I finally understood deeply—he'd carved a mark on my body that could never be erased.
Outside, snow began falling again. This winter seemed like it would never end.