Chapter Twenty - Lukin
It’s been a week since the wedding, and I realize something about myself that I never expected: I’m more patient than I give myself credit for.
I’ve always thought of myself as vicious, impatient, someone who takes what he wants when he wants it. In business, in life—I don’t wait. I get what I need, and I get it quickly. But with Zoe, it’s different.
With her, I’ve been giving her all the time she needs to adjust to her new situation.
Watching her move through the halls of this house, cautious and distant, stirs something in me—something primal, something that unsettles me.
She’s trying to play the game, trying to act like she can ignore what’s between us.
But I can see it in her eyes, in the way she keeps her distance, in the way her shoulders tense whenever I enter the room. She’s fighting this. Fighting me.
She’s both my wife and my prisoner, and that duality, that contradiction, is driving me mad. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, and at the same time, I want to break her. I want to make her submit to me, to show her that there’s nowhere for her to hide, no way for her to escape.
But above all, more than anything else, I want to see her smile again.
I want to see that softness return to her eyes, that warmth that was there before she started pulling away from me. The way she looked at me when she let herself fall into me—when she allowed herself to feel. It was intoxicating.
But now?
Now she’s guarded, careful, like I’m some kind of threat she can’t escape. And the worst part? I’m the one who put that look in her eyes. I’m the one who pushed her to this point.
I can’t help the jealousy that claws at me when she’s on the phone talking to someone who isn’t me, or when she moves through this house like it’s not our home, like she doesn’t belong to me yet.
But I’m giving her time. Time to adjust. Time to realize she doesn’t have a choice.
I watch her when I can, from a distance, trying not to let her see how badly I want to break through her defenses. Fuck. I need her so bad.
“Is this a good decision?”
The question pulls me out of my thoughts, sharp and unexpected. I glance up, meeting Adrian’s eyes from across the table. He’s sitting there, watching me, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern.
“What do you mean?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend, but I don’t care.
Adrian leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Marrying Zoe. You haven’t told anyone, especially Maria. What will you do when she finds out about this?”
I freeze at the mention of Maria. My chest tightens.
I’m not worried about Maria because of me. As much as I love her, she’s my daughter, not my boss. I can do whatever I want.
I’m worried about Maria because of Zoe.
They’ve been best friends for years, and I know that’s one of the reasons it’s taking Zoe so long to adjust. She’s trying to navigate this world, this life, without losing the only real connection she has left—Maria.
I rise from my chair, my anger simmering beneath the surface. I can’t stand Adrian’s stupid questions, his incessant probing. He doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand.
Without another word, I turn and walk out of the office, the door slamming behind me as I leave Adrian’s questions and doubts in the dust.
I take a long walk through the house, trying to clear my head. My thoughts are tangled, too much going on at once. need a moment of calm, a space where I can breathe without feeling like everything’s slipping through my fingers.
The silence of the house envelops me as I walk, the walls echoing with my every step. The air is cool, the house grand but empty, just the way it’s supposed to be. It’s all mine—my space, my control.
As I pass the library, something catches my eye. A flicker of movement through the door.
I stop, instinctively drawn in.
Inside, I find Zoe curled up on the couch, sketching something in a book, the pages open in front of her.
I can’t help but pause, watching her. She’s focused, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration as her pencil moves across the page.
Her hair falls loosely around her face, and for a moment, she seems so…
different from the woman I’ve been watching, the one who’s been so distant since our marriage.
She’s soft. The way she draws, lost in her own world, unaware of my presence for a few seconds.
When she finally looks up, our eyes meet.
I expect her to flinch, to shy away from me, to retreat like she always does. But she doesn’t. She just blinks, the briefest acknowledgment of me, and then she goes back to her drawing.
I stand there, frozen, unable to look away. The moment feels strange, like it shouldn’t be happening. She’s not afraid of me. Not anymore. And that realization sits with me—heavier than I expected.
My curiosity piques as I notice the details of her drawing.
It’s not just a random doodle. She’s sketching dresses, intricate designs, delicate lines and curves.
I see the concentration in her eyes, the way her fingers move with precision.
I know she’s into fashion design, and it makes my stomach swirl to see her so invested in it.
I stand there for a moment longer, watching her, but I don’t say anything.
I let the silence linger, the quiet rhythm of her pencil scratching against the page filling the space between us.
My chest tightens, and I feel that familiar pull toward her again—an urge to close the distance, to reach out and take.
But I can’t.
I shake my head slightly, willing myself to step away.
The last thing I need right now is to make any impulsive moves, to do something that’ll ruin everything I’ve been building.
Patience. I’ve been patient with her, giving her time to adjust, to come to terms with this life we’re building.
Now is not the time to cross a line she’s not ready to cross.
With one last glance at her, I turn and walk away.
Later that evening, I sit alone at the dining table, the silverware gleaming in the low light of the room.
The food is carefully prepared, the aroma filling the house, my gaze distant as I stare down at the empty chair across from me.
The room is quiet, too quiet, and the stillness gnaws at me.
Zoe should be on that chair, talking to me in that soft voice of hers.
The cook appears from the kitchen, holding a large tray of food as she goes up the stairs. I call out to her, my voice sharp.
“Who’s that for?”
She turns, startled by my sudden question, and answers in a low voice, “It’s for Madam.”
I feel a flicker of something cold in my chest at the mention of Zoe. She’s still keeping to herself, isolating herself in this house like she’s waiting for something to change.
I wave a hand dismissively. “Take it back into the kitchen,” I say, my tone more commanding than I intended. “Go upstairs and tell Zoe to come down. She’ll eat with me.”
The cook hesitates, glancing between me and the stairs before she turns and leaves the room.
Minutes pass, and I sit there, feeling the weight of the silence in the room pressing down on me again. I try to focus on the work I should be doing, but I can’t seem to shake the image of her—her eyes, her cold distance.
Suddenly, the cook returns, her face pale, her steps unsteady as she approaches. She’s shaking.
I look up, irritated. “What is it?”
Her voice is barely audible as she speaks, fear laced in every word. “Madam… she refused your offer, sir. She said she’d rather go hungry.”
My chest tightens. I can feel the anger bubbling up inside me, but I curb it. I know I need to be patient with her. I have to give her time. I can’t rush her into accepting me, into accepting this life we’re supposed to share.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, taking a breath to steady myself. When I open them again, I look at the cook, my voice low and controlled. “Take the food up to her,” I order. “And tell her, when she’s ready to join me, the offer still stands.”
The cook nods quickly and turns to leave, but just as she reaches the door, Zoe appears in the hallway.
Tension crackles in the air as she sits all the way across from me. The space between us feels like a chasm, like she’s drawing a line I’m not allowed to cross. Her expression is unreadable—calm, poised, soft.
The cook sets her food down in front of her and quickly retreats, sensing the tension thick in the air.
We don’t speak.
The clinking of cutlery is the only sound in the room, steady and sharp. She eats in silence, slowly, carefully, like she’s aware of every movement, every breath. And I watch her—because I always watch her.
This isn’t a victory. She didn’t come down because I wanted her to. She came down because she chose this moment to show me that I don’t control her—not really. Not completely. But it’s something. A small shift. A crack in the wall between us.
A silent truce.
She doesn’t meet my eyes once, and I don’t force her to. I don’t speak, though my throat burns with all the things I want to say. Questions. Demands. Apologies, maybe. I swallow them down with every bite.
When she finishes, she rises quietly, pushing back her chair without a sound. No glance, no nod, no acknowledgment. She walks away with that same graceful defiance she wears like armor.
I don’t stop her.
I just sit there, staring after her as she disappears up the stairs, her figure swallowed by the shadows. My jaw clenches, my chest tight. That ache in my gut returns, raw and familiar.
I’ve taken everything in my life by force—power, respect, fear. But this?
This woman?
She’s the one thing I want that I can’t just take.
And it’s slowly, quietly, killing me.