Chapter Twenty-One - Isabella
Days blur together, one identical to the next, each hour hemmed in by velvet and marble and the click of locks behind me. The mansion is a masterpiece of wealth: vaulted ceilings, gold filigree, endless halls awash in afternoon light.
The beauty is a trap, suffocating and inescapable. Every room is furnished for comfort, yet I can’t find rest. I drift from window to window, pressing my palm to the glass, searching for cracks in the world Emil has built around me. There are none.
Emil’s guards shadow my every move. Big men in tailored suits, guns hidden but always present, their faces impassive as stone.
For your safety, they say, but I know the truth. I am a prize, a hostage, a living warning to his enemies. Every step I take is measured, every word I say overheard and reported back to him.
When I try to wander the gardens alone, I find a guard already posted at every gate. When I retreat to my room, I hear footsteps outside my door at all hours, the muffled exchange of words in Russian.
Sometimes, in the silence, I imagine what would happen if I ran—how quickly I would be caught, how little it would matter.
I push back where I can. I refuse the meals brought to my room, let the food go cold on the tray until the maids carry it away untouched.
I avoid Emil whenever possible, locking myself in the bathroom or pretending to read by the window, determined to deny him my company.
I try not to let him see me rattle the windows at night, testing for weaknesses. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Still, he always finds a way under my skin.
I wake one morning to find a cup of tea waiting on a silver tray by my door.
Not just any tea—my favorite, the one I mentioned offhandedly weeks ago, a blend I haven’t tasted since I was a girl.
The scent rises in the quiet, soft and nostalgic, and for a moment I almost let myself feel comforted.
It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does.
The knowledge that he remembered, that he listened, makes something hot and traitorous flicker inside me.
I hate that he knows how to do this, how to make me feel seen just enough to keep me off-balance.
At breakfast, he waits for me in the sunlit dining room, already seated at the head of the long table.
He stands when I enter, gestures for me to sit across from him.
The guards post themselves at the door, and the staff flit in and out, heads down, avoiding my gaze.
The place setting in front of me is flawless—fine china, polished silver, another cup of that same tea.
Emil is immaculate as always, dark suit, cuff links gleaming. He studies me as I take my seat, his mouth curled in a faint, knowing smile. He doesn’t bother with small talk. Instead, he leans forward, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Did you sleep well, Bella?” The words are innocuous, but his eyes spark with private amusement. “Or are you still recovering from our little adventure the other night?”
My cheeks burn, but I refuse to look away. I meet his gaze, cold and steady. “If you’re trying to embarrass me, you’ll have to try harder.”
He laughs softly, tapping his spoon against his mug. “I like when you fight me. Makes things more interesting.” He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. “I think you enjoyed it too, didn’t you?”
I want to throw the tea in his face. I want to scream at him, curse him, shatter the china and storm out. Instead, I keep my hands flat on the table, gripping the napkin so tightly my knuckles ache. “If you think I’ll ever beg for you, you’re delusional.”
His grin widens. “I don’t need you to beg. I know you want me either way.”
I glare at him, refusing to let him see how his words sink under my skin.
The more I fight, the more he seems to enjoy it.
He feeds on my anger, drinks in my defiance.
I think about the way he touched me that night, how my body betrayed me, how I shattered and hated myself for it…
and a fresh wave of shame washes through me.
I focus on the tea, willing myself to keep breathing, to keep from breaking in front of him.
Halfway through breakfast, a maid enters to clear the plates. She moves too quickly, nearly dropping a stack of dishes. The head servant snaps at her in Russian, his voice loud and impatient. He glances at me, and in that glance is a world of judgment: the spoiled foreign bride, the outsider.
I ignore him, but Emil’s attention sharpens. He speaks a single word in Russian, and the man freezes. The silence stretches. Emil rises from his chair, crosses the room with slow, measured steps, and fixes the servant with a look that could freeze the sun.
“Apologize,” Emil says, his voice low, deadly. The servant stammers, eyes wide. He bows to me, muttering something that sounds like regret, and then flees the room. Emil turns back to me, expression unchanged, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
His protection is absolute, but it is terrifying. I don’t know whether to be grateful or horrified. His power is a blade only sometimes wielded for me, but always reminding me who holds the hilt.
When the room is empty again, Emil resumes his seat. “No one disrespects my wife,” he says quietly, eyes locked on mine. “Not in my house.”
I should feel safe. Instead, I feel smaller, more trapped. The reality is as clear as the porcelain in my hand—I am precious here, but only because I belong to him. I am the line he’s drawn in the sand, the proof of his victory, and everyone knows it.
He reaches across the table, brushing his fingers over mine. It’s a touch so casual and intimate it makes me flinch. He watches the reaction, the tension in my shoulders, the set of my jaw. He likes it. I see it in his eyes.
I sip the tea, tasting memory and defiance and something dangerously close to longing. I am his, but I am not broken. Not yet.
Every day, I remind myself the cage is gilded, but it is still a cage. I will not let myself forget.
***
That night, I curl up in the window seat, knees drawn to my chest, chin pressed to my arms. The sky outside is dark velvet, the city lights stretched out in patterns I can’t decipher.
From here, the world looks quiet, orderly, like nothing bad could ever happen, like no one is plotting, or dying, or trapped behind glass in a palace built from fear.
The quiet is a lie, and so is the stillness inside me.
I hate Emil. I hate everything he’s taken, everything he’s made me become. I hate the weight of his name, the way every guard and servant bows their head and calls me Mrs. Sharov, as if the old Isabella is gone for good.
It isn’t simple. It never is. I can’t forget the way Emil looks at me, like I’m the only thing in this fortress that feels real to him. I can’t stop remembering the way his voice softens, just slightly, when he says my name. It’s as if it means something only we understand.
I can’t forget the way he touches me, sometimes careful, sometimes brutal, and the way it leaves me burning for hours afterward: shamed, furious, alive in ways I never asked for.
Every day, the hatred and the confusion grow side by side. I nurse my anger, sharpening it like a knife, but then he does something I can’t explain.
A remembered cup of tea, a hand on my back when he thinks I’m not looking, the flash of panic in his eyes when I wince at a loud noise. The longer I live here, the harder it gets to draw the lines.
The longer I fight him, the more I feel myself unraveling. I’m not sure which is stronger anymore—my loathing, or the slow, sick fascination that comes with knowing he’d burn the world for me, if only I’d let him.
A soft knock startles me. The door cracks open, and Dimitri steps inside. He’s always respectful—more so than anyone else in this house—but there’s a distance to him, a watchfulness that never fades.
“May I?” he asks, nodding toward the second armchair in the corner.
I shrug, wary but too tired to fight. “Do I have a choice?”
He smiles, a faint, dry twist of his mouth. “Not really.” He sits, elbows on his knees, hands laced. “You’ve had a difficult day.”
I don’t answer. I turn back to the window, watching the headlights snake along the distant river. Dimitri lets the silence stretch, unbothered. Eventually, he says, “You’re stronger than I expected.”
I huff out a bitter laugh. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.” He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “Emil isn’t an easy man. He respects strength, but he doesn’t always know what to do with it.”
I bite my lip, fiddling with the sleeve of my robe. “Does he tell you to check on me?”
“Sometimes.” Dimitri’s gaze is steady, honest in a way that unsettles me. “Sometimes I come because I want to. Not everyone in this house wants you to suffer, Isabella.”
I don’t believe him—not really—but I say nothing. There’s too much tangled up inside me to sort out the truth from the lies. “He’s going to start a war, isn’t he?” I ask, voice small. “With my uncle. With everyone.”
“Maybe.” Dimitri’s shoulders shift in a faint shrug. “He won’t risk you. That much I know.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel safe?” My voice cracks. “Being precious because I’m leverage?”
Dimitri’s eyes soften a fraction. “You’re more than leverage. Even to him.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Emil’s never been good at losing control. You… unsettle him.”
I look away, tears stinging my eyes. “I wish I could believe that mattered.”
He lets that hang between us, then stands. “It does. Maybe more than it should.”
Before he leaves, he hesitates in the doorway. “If you need anything—if you want someone to talk to—I’m here. I’m not your enemy, Isabella. Neither is everyone in this house.”
I nod, but I don’t thank him. I don’t know how.
The room is silent again, save for the distant hum of the city and the echo of my own restless thoughts.
I stare at my reflection in the glass: hair tangled, eyes bruised with exhaustion, mouth set in a line I barely recognize.
I think about the girl I used to be, the one who dreamed of escape, of love, of a life without bargains and blood.
I think about the woman Emil sees now—the one he wants to tame, to claim, to worship and to destroy. I wonder which one is closer to the truth.
The longer I sit, the more the ache inside me grows: rage, longing, confusion, all knotted together. I hate him for what he’s done, but I hate myself more for not being able to wish it all away, for the pulse of desire that lingers long after he’s gone.
I rest my forehead against the cold glass, eyes squeezed shut, trying to quiet the storm inside me. There’s no peace to be found in this gilded cage, no comfort in the dark. There’s only this—I am changing, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go back.
I whisper his name, hating myself for how soft it sounds. I promise myself, and Enzo’s ghost, that I’ll survive this. That I’ll find a way to make it mean something, even if I have to lose myself to do it.
I close my eyes and let the night swallow me whole, caught between hatred and hunger, not sure which will win.