Chapter 7
PENELOPE
The cold water stung my face as I splashed it over my cheeks, desperate to rinse away the lingering horror of the nightmare.
It had felt too real—hands grabbing me out of the dark, voices jeering, shadows leaning close enough for me to smell their sweat. I could still feel fingers digging into my wrists, the press of a palm over my mouth, the helpless panic clawing up my throat.
It was like being dragged under a tide I couldn’t fight.
But as the icy droplets slid down my skin, clarity began to pierce the fog.
No, my uncles couldn’t have done that to me.
And the third figure in the dream—the one whose face I couldn’t see—it wasn’t Dmitri. It had my father’s broad shoulders, his heavy silhouette, but that was impossible.
It was just a dream, a twisted conjuring of my fears.
None of it was real.
None of it had ever happened.
I straightened, gripping the sink’s edge, my reflection staring back from the fogged mirror—pale, haunted, but unbroken.
I examined my inner thighs discreetly, my fingers brushing the skin for any sign of violation.
Nothing.
Dmitri had sworn he hadn’t touched me in my sleep, and despite everything, his flat denial carried a weight of truth.
The man was a monster, but he’d never crossed that line.
Still, the nightmare’s claws lingered, and a dark part of me wondered if it had surfaced because he’d been there, watching me sleep, his presence a catalyst for my subconscious fears.
Could I trust a man whose heart seemed capable of such cruelty?
I shook off the thought, brushed my teeth with mechanical precision, and stepped out of the bathroom, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders as I sank onto the bed.
The room was dim, the heavy curtains blocking out Lake Como’s deceptive beauty, but Dmitri Volkov was still there, seated in his chair like a dark sentinel.
He’d dragged it closer to the bed, his piercing gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
“Why are you watching me while I sleep?” I snapped, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
It came out harsher than I meant, but I needed it that way—needed the edge to mask the unease curling in my stomach. “Planning how to kill me?”
His eyes didn’t flicker, not even once.
“No.” The word landed like a gunshot—flat, unshaken. “I don’t plan things like that, Penelope. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t wake up to ask the question.”
My chin lifted, defiance warring with the tremor in my chest.
“Then do it,” I dared, the words tasting like iron on my tongue.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his stare narrowing into something colder than steel.
A faint, humorless smirk touched his lips. “You don’t give me orders,” he murmured, voice edged like a knife. “And let this be the last time you accuse me of touching you in your sleep.”
His words were measured, but there was an edge to them, as if my earlier accusation still festered, a wound he was battling to disprove.
I froze, the words sinking in like ice in my veins.
My chest tightened, heartbeat hammering against my ribs. He had never—would never—violate me, and yet the memory of my nightmare lingered, clawing at the edges of my mind.
My stomach growled loudly, a reminder of the hunger I’d ignored in the chaos of the day.
I stood, brushing past him without a glance. “I need to eat.”
He didn’t respond, but I felt his gaze trailing me like a physical weight as I left the room, my bare feet silent on the polished hardwood floors.
The kitchen was a haven of stainless steel and gleaming marble, but my mood soured the moment I saw Giovanni at the counter, chopping vegetables with a precision that bordered on obsessive.
The faint aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air, but his presence was an unwelcome intrusion.
I moved to the opposite side of the island, grabbing a bag of coffee beans and a loaf of crusty sourdough bread to make myself a quick meal—a strong espresso and a grilled cheese sandwich with a smear of spicy mustard for a kick.
Without looking at me, Giovanni spoke, his voice casual but probing. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m making coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich,” I said curtly, measuring out the beans. “I don’t need your help.”
He continued stirring a pot of creamy mushroom risotto, the steam rising in soft curls. “I’m preparing this for the boss—risotto, no spice, just how he likes it. Maybe you two could share?”
“No, thank you,” I snapped, my hands moving faster as I buttered the bread. “And what, he doesn’t eat spice?”
“Nope,” Giovanni replied, still focused on his task. “He’s allergic to it.”
I raised an eyebrow, surprised. “What happens when he does?”
“Let’s just say it’s not pretty,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone as he stirred the risotto with a wooden spoon, the grains glistening under the kitchen lights. “Hives, swelling, chaos. He avoids it like the plague.”
I snorted, flipping my sandwich onto the sizzling pan.
“Well, I’m not eating that bland vegetarian slop with him. I like spice.”
“I could add some chili flakes to yours,” he offered, still engrossed in his cooking, the risotto now perfectly creamy as he sprinkled in a pinch of parmesan.
“Which part of ‘I’m not eating with him’ don’t you understand?” I retorted, my voice sharp as I pressed the sandwich down with a spatula, the cheese oozing satisfyingly.
Giovanni smirked, unfazed, wiping his hands on a towel as he finished his prep.
He turned to me at last, his scarred face lit with a knowing glint.
I glared at him, my sandwich now golden and crisp.
“What?” I demanded, my tone rising.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothing.”
“If you have something to say, say it.” I said, my voice dripping with a jovial cruelty, a spark of defiance flaring as I plated my sandwich and poured the espresso, the rich aroma grounding me.
“You really believe all he feels for you is hate?” he said, picking up a tray with the risotto, a glass of water, and a neatly folded napkin.
I scoffed, cutting my sandwich with a knife, the blade flashing under the light. “Believe? I’ve lived it. You don’t need eyes to feel hate burn through a room.”
He smirked again, a secretive edge to it, and walked out with the tray balanced expertly in his hands.
I stared after him, wondering what he was insinuating.
Did he think there was more to Dmitri’s cold exterior? The idea was laughable, but it lingered, a thorn in my thoughts.
I finished preparing my meal—a steaming cup of espresso and the grilled cheese, its spicy mustard bite exactly what I needed—and was about to head to the living room when Giovanni reappeared.
“I can carry that for you—wherever you’d like to eat,” he offered, his tone too polite, too accommodating.
“I have hands,” I said, gripping the tray tightly. “If I can cook, I can carry it. I’m not porcelain.”
He smirked again, stepping closer. “I broke protocol by letting you near that stove. The boss won’t like it.
I only allowed it because I can’t cook for both of you at once. But... let me, Penelope.”
I clenched my jaw, anger flaring.
“No.” I tried to brush past him, but he stepped in front of me, his expression shifting from polite to insistent.
“Let me,” he said, no longer asking, his hands already reaching for the tray.
Before I could protest further, he took it with a practiced ease, leaving me no choice.
I sighed, relenting. “Fine. After you.”
He carried the tray like a seasoned waiter, leading me out of the kitchen.
We passed through the grand dining room, where Dmitri sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his risotto before him, his posture regal, like a king presiding over his court.
I averted my gaze, pretending I hadn’t stolen a glance at him from the corner of my eye, and kept walking toward the living room.
“Ma’am,” Giovanni called, stopping me in my tracks.
I turned to see him placing my tray on the table—directly opposite Dmitri’s seat.
My stomach twisted. “That’s not where I want to eat,” I said, my voice tight.
“That’s where the boss wants you to eat,” Giovanni replied matter-of-factly, then turned and hurried away before I could argue.
So that was the plan.
He hadn’t offered to carry my tray out of kindness; he’d been herding me to Dmitri’s side, forcing me into this unwanted proximity.
Rage simmered beneath my skin, but I plastered a defiant smirk across my face.
“I despise this butler,” I said, letting the words roll off my tongue like a challenge. “Can you replace him?”
Dmitri’s gaze lifted slowly, eyes icy and unreadable, pinning me in place as if I were a mere insect under a microscope. “What you hate or like holds no weight in my house,” he said, flat, final.
The words hit harder than any blow, but I forced myself to mask the sting, reminding myself I was still a prisoner here, my autonomy a fragile illusion.
I adjusted my posture, pretending I had rights I didn’t.
He returned to his meal, indifferent, as if my defiance were nothing more than background noise.
Defiance coiled quietly in my veins as I moved toward the dining table.
I reached for the tray, intent on carrying it to the living room, anywhere but here, when his hand shot out, gripping my arm with a firmness that stopped me cold.
“Sit,” he ordered, his voice low and commanding.
“No.” I yanked against his hold, my pulse spiking, but his grip didn’t budge.
“Sit, Penelope,” he repeated, his tone unyielding, his icy blue eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin.
“No.” I twisted my arm again, desperation creeping in, but in a swift, fluid motion, he rose from his chair and pulled me to his side with a gentleness that felt alien, almost disorienting.
Before I could process it, he guided me down onto his lap, my body settling against his as if I weighed nothing.
The sudden intimacy sent a jolt through me, my insecurities crashing like a tidal wave.
My plus-size frame felt heavier than ever, the old wounds of his past body-shaming words slicing through my mind.