Chapter Nine
Elena’s POV
The silence I woke up to was heavy, anchored by the weight of centuries-old power and the presence of men who didn’t need to shout to be feared.
I lay still for a long moment, staring at the intricate crown molding above the bed.
The disorientation was physical, a dizzying sense of being unmoored.
I was no longer a visitor, yet I was not quite a wife.
I was a prisoner who had been given the keys to the garden, a lawyer whose best defense had been stripped away and replaced with a gold band I hadn’t yet agreed to wear.
I sat up, the silk sheets sliding against my skin.
Refusing to think of the previous night or the man I’d spent it with, I went straight to the bathroom to freshen up.
Now dressed in a simple black, long-sleeved woolen dress that stopped below my knees, I pulled my hair into an uncharacteristic ponytail.
I turned the knob of the door and, surprisingly, it opened.
Just as I walked past the door, a guard came towards me, tray in hand.
“Good morning, ma. I was asked to bring your breakfast,” he disclosed, bowing his head as he greeted.
“Oh, I was going to find my way to the study and just spend some time there. I’m not hungry.”
“I'll take you to the study after you’ve had your food,” he answered, his eyes flicking to the door I had just walked out of.
Of course, his ‘suggestion’ was another way of saying, “My boss will have my head if he finds out I took the food back. Please, don’t be the cause of my death.”
I sighed. “Okay.”
“Thank you, ma,” he whispered as I led the way into my room.
He stood by the door as I ate, reminding me of when Damian had done the same just days ago.
“Thanks,” I told him as he lifted the now almost-empty tray.
“You’re welcome, ma,” he answered. “Do you want to go to the study now, or should I come back later to take you?”
“Oh, let’s go now,” I replied, rising to my feet.
“I’d rather not risk entering the wrong room in another Lobanov safe house,” I let out as we walked past more doors along the immaculate hallway.
“This is Sir Damian’s house. It’s not a safe house,” he answered with a tone that carried a sense of pride and amusement.
“Oh, his own house? When we passed the estate gates yesterday, I just assumed this was another joint Lobanov property.”
“I guess it’s still Lobanov property, technically speaking. But it’s Sir Damian’s private residence.”
“Nice.”
That was an understatement of my amazement over the new information.
The house didn’t look or feel cold; it felt lived-in.
Instead of relics of individual dominance, the whole space carried signs of family power.
It was a direct reflection of what I would have expected of Damian’s house.
The simple contrast unsettled me more than the overt menace would.
“We’re here,” the guard informed, stopping in front of double doors.
“Thank you,” I told him, managing a smile. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Danil, ma.”
“Well, I’m Elena.”
A shy smile played around his lips. “We dare not call you by your name, ma.”
“Right,” I muttered, nodding.
The workers probably got the marriage memo before I did.
“Thanks,” I said again, realizing he was waiting for me to dismiss him.
He nodded and went in the opposite direction as I opened the door and entered the study. I remember catching glimpses of papers concerning the lawsuit on one of the tables, as Damian and I spoke the day before.
But the tables were clean this morning.
I stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the manicured grounds. Somewhere out there, the traitor I was exposing was likely circling the perimeter, looking for the crack in the Lobanov armor that didn’t exist.
I needed structure. I needed the one thing that had always kept me sane: the law.
I looked around the shelves that dwarfed me, checking folded newspapers and open books to see if I could see the papers I was looking for. Reviewing the lawsuit was my way of grounding myself. It was my tether to the person I had been before Damian Lobanov crashed into my life.
Eventually, I found them in a file wrapped with newspapers. I sat in one of the chairs facing a table and started to spread the papers out.
The lawsuit was a masterpiece of strategic civil action.
On the surface, it targeted a series of shell corporations—real-estate fronts that seemed like standard corporate crime.
But beneath the legal jargon was a map of the Bratva’s circulatory system.
I had identified the money laundering routes that overlapped with federal jurisdictions, ensuring that once the first subpoena was served, the FBI would have no choice but to follow the trail.
I hadn’t filed it to win a settlement. I was weaponizing legitimacy against a world that relied on secrecy.
I leaned back, tapping a silver pen against my chin.
I had been groomed for this. Raised under Sergei’s guardianship, I had learned early that intelligence was the only protection that lasted.
I had watched the men in my family use violence like a blunt instrument, and I had realized that while a bullet could kill a person, a well-placed legal loophole could kill an empire.
Law was my rebellion—my way of saying I would not be the silent, obedient daughter the Bratva demanded.
Hours later, I was knee-deep in reflection and lawsuit details when I heard the door open. I didn’t jump. Neither did I turn. I had come to recognize the almost-silent tap of Damian’s footsteps. The fact that a few seconds passed before he approached further proved that he was the one.
“I should have known you’d be here,” he remarked.
“Morning to you, too,” I answered as he came to me on the other side of the table.
I looked up to see that he wasn’t in a suit today, just a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up close to his elbows. His expression was…ordinary.
“It’s afternoon already,” he corrected, pulling a chair close and sitting opposite me.
“Right,” I agreed, suddenly running out of things to say.
His gaze rested on me, making me feel exposed. It didn’t help matters that we were both on the longer sides of a rectangular table—he was close enough to face without having to lean forward.
“Shouldn’t you be in some kind of meeting with your brothers?”
“How did you sleep?”
“You shouldn’t answer a question with a question. It’s considered rude.”
He chuckled like he was about to call my argument nonsense, but then he said, “I’m here because I can be here. Now, answer my question.”
“I slept well. Like every other person does,” I answered, moving my eyes back to the papers in front of me.
“Are you sore?”
Oh, God. Could this get any harder?
“I’m fine,” I answered, shrugging, still not looking up from my precious papers.
“If you didn't already know, I wasn’t asking if you were fine.”
“Are you always this persistent?” I inquired, meeting his eyes.
“You’re so eager to avoid the conversation that you didn’t notice that I just used your line on you,” he pointed out, a smirk on his devilishly handsome face.
Right.
He said, if you didn’t already know.
“I’m not… sore.”
“Why are you uncomfortable? Would you rather I didn’t ask at all?” he inquired, his tone laced with amusement.
He’s enjoying this.
“You know what? I liked you better when you were unreasonably cold and immovable,” I confessed.
“And I like when you’re telling me not to ask you anymore fucking questions.”
His unexpected, playful retort made me laugh.
“When you’re challenging me stubbornly with that unflinching gaze,” he added, making me roll my eyes.
“I was quite…rough yesterday. I just wanted to know if I hurt you,” he uttered, his expression now solemn.
I sighed, unable to deny the effect his words had on my insides.
“You didn’t hurt me,” I answered, holding his gaze.
He nodded.
Then he looked down at the papers.
“How did you even find those?”
“I’m good at finding things. Part of being a lawyer,” I explained.
“That, or it’s because you’re good at hiding things, too.”
I chuckled.
The banter between us felt domestic, shaking me more than our earlier hostility.
“The lawsuit is setting off actions like you predicted. Things might be going even faster than anticipated,” he told me.
“That’s both good and bad news.”
“Whichever form it’ll take, the war won’t consume you. That’s what my protection is all about.”
He moved closer, his right hand picking a tendril of hair from my face and bringing it behind my hair. He didn’t exactly touch me, but the action felt so intimate, so raw.
“Thanks,” I uttered, forcing myself to find my voice.
I could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.
He could feel it too.
This is dangerous.
Marriage wasn’t in the cards. Especially not to a man who kissed me like it was a drug and said words that I never thought existed in this criminal world. Emotional attachment would only weaken my position, I knew that.
*****
Later that afternoon, as I was walking toward the library to find a specific text on international finance, I stopped near a half-open door.
“The timeline is moving up,” I heard a voice say. It was Yuri, Damian’s right-hand man, his tone blunt and efficient. “The Hale accounts are already showing activity. If we wait until after the ceremony, we lose the window.”
“Then we don’t wait,” Damian’s voice responded, cold and authoritative. “The lawsuit has triggered a reaction faster than she anticipated. The traitor isn’t just liquidating; he’s preparing to burn the routes entirely.”
I froze, my hand hovering over the door handle. The lawsuit—my weapon, my rebellion—was spinning out of control. The stakes were rising, and the retreat I had imagined was becoming an impossibility.
I wasn’t just adjusting to a new reality. I was watching the old world burn, and I was standing right in the middle of the flames.
I moved away from the door, the weight of Yuri’s words settling into my bones like ice. The lawsuit was no longer a chess match; it had become a landslide, and I was being dragged down the mountain faster than I could find my footing.
As the soft evening light stretched across the estate, the house began to feel less like a fortress and more like a stage.
I caught glimpses of the other Lobanovs through the tall windows of the library and the sweeping curves of the hallways.
Viktor and Emilia, the architects of this modern dynasty, moved with a quiet, terrifying grace.
I saw Roman and Liza in deep conversation near the grand staircase, and Konstantin, whose reputation for brutality made even my uncle’s men hesitate, stood with Alina by the hearth.
They didn’t look at me with the open hostility I expected.
Instead, there was an unsettling sense of acceptance.
I was no longer the “Vasiliev problem” to be solved; I was the future Mrs. Damian Lobanov, a fixture of their world.
This realization caused a prickle of unease.
In my uncle’s world, visibility meant you were a target, but here, visibility meant you were claimed.
For a woman who had used her body as the ultimate fortress of autonomy, the idea of being “claimed” by a name was a different kind of violation.
I found myself back in the library, staring at a shelf of antique law texts I couldn’t focus on.
The question bugged me without any space to breathe.
Now, what do I do about it? Allow myself to be claimed or test the violent waters myself?