Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Natasha
I stood in the grand foyer of the Romanov Manor, clutching two suitcases. Cold marble everywhere, a massive crystal chandelier glaring overhead, the air thick with expensive cigars and sandalwood.
But as the so-called wife of New York's mafia pakhan, I got no welcome. No servants greeting me. The air was cold as a meat locker.
First day of marriage, and my husband was already treating me like I didn't exist.
Dante had his back to me, standing before a huge mirror. His solemn-faced butler Richard was helping him into his coat.
I took a deep breath, forcing down the nausea from not eating all day and sheer anxiety, trying to sound gentle. Non-threatening.
"Dante," I started, my voice thin in the cavernous hall, "which room is mine?"
Dante didn't turn around. Didn't even acknowledge I'd spoken. He looked straight at Richard, tone ice-cold, like he was instructing him to dispose of rotting garbage.
"Find her the most remote room possible. I don't want to see her anywhere in the main areas of this house."
Richard blinked, clearly caught off guard. Obviously hadn't expected this kind of order on day one of a marriage.
I blinked too. Told myself it was fine. No big deal.
Dante seemed annoyed by Richard's hesitation. He adjusted his cufflinks. "That empty room in the attic. Should suit her just fine."
Richard quickly wiped all emotion from his face and bowed his head. "Understood, sir."
With that, Dante strode toward the Manor's oak doors.
A bodyguard pulled them open, and cold wind rushed in, ruffling his black hair.
During the whole time, he never once looked at me.
The doors slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud that made my heart jump and severed whatever last thread had connected us.
"Madam, please follow me." Richard turned, his tone professionally polite but clearly distant and appraising compared to when I'd visited as a guest.
I accepted my fate and picked up the heavy suitcases. No servants came to help. I didn't expect any.
I followed Richard down long corridors carpeted with thick Persian rugs. The Manor was huge, a maze. Along the way, I could feel the maids standing in corners—dusting vases, straightening paintings—openly staring and whispering.
Their deliberately hushed gossip buzzed straight into my ears like mosquitoes.
"That's really her?"
"Miss Vera Kornilov got chased off at the last minute?"
"No wonder he won't even look at her. Didn't know she had it in her."
I clenched my jaw and kept my eyes forward, pretending I heard nothing. After all those years with the Kornilov family, I was immune to malicious stares.
The so-called attic room was at the end of a hallway on the Manor's top floor. When Richard pushed open the warped wooden door, a thick wave of mildew and dust hit me in the face, making me cough.
This wasn't a room. It was an abandoned storage closet.
Cramped and narrow, with a slanted ceiling that felt oppressive.
The corners were piled with furniture from god knows what era, dust-covered paintings, and broken cardboard boxes.
In the center sat what looked like a single bed that had been forgotten for at least a decade, the mattress thick with dust, springs poking out the sides.
Richard brought me to the doorway and gave a slight bow. "This is your room, madam. If there's nothing else, I'll take my leave."
He didn't even step inside before turning and walking briskly away.
I stood alone in this so-called room and couldn't help a bitter smile. What was this? Cinderella's tragic reality version? Except I had no fairy godmother, and my prince was a mafia pakhan who'd love to see me skinned alive.
I sighed, dragged my luggage toward the bed, planning to set the heavy case down so I could open a window and air the place out.
The moment the suitcase touched the mattress, the bed frame let out a pathetic groan. Then the whole wooden frame collapsed sideways in a cloud of dust.
I staggered back, covering my mouth and nose, staring at the pile of completely wrecked wood and swirling dust, stunned.
When your luck runs out, even breathing chokes you. I seriously suspected God was bored and using my life for entertainment.
I shrugged and muttered to myself. "Whatever. I never liked sleeping on high beds anyway. Floor's better for your spine."
Though, unless I wanted to bunk with whatever ancient spiders were hiding in that dust tonight, a thorough cleaning was absolutely unavoidable.
I left the room and caught a maid on the stairs carrying a basin of fresh linens.
"Excuse me," I kept my tone friendly, "where can I find cleaning supplies? Clean rags?"
The maid stopped, looked me up and down, then rolled her eyes and tossed out dismissively, "I've got a lot of work to do, madam. Storage room on the ground floor, maybe. Go look for yourself."
She sidestepped me and hurried off, as if one more word to me would curse her with bad luck.
The next half hour, I wandered the unfamiliar manor like a headless chicken, facing the same indifference and obstruction.
But honestly? These encounters weren't that hard to take.
Just trading one cage for another. In the Kornilov household, I'd been an invisible outsider.
My father's cold stares and my sister's cruelty had long since taught me how to survive in the cracks.
I was a weed. Weeds don't need anyone's careful attention to stay alive.
But my luck finally turned.
Rounding the next corridor, a round-faced young maid stopped in front of me.
"You're the new lady of the house?" She smiled at me, eyes crinkling into crescents—the first kind face I'd seen since entering this place.
I quickly asked where I could find cleaning supplies, and without a word, she led me to the ground floor storage room, efficiently gathering me a broom, rags, and a bucket of cleaner. She even handed me two old towels, saying they worked best for wiping dust.
She said her name was Masha.
Masha chattered the whole way, asking where I'd lived before, what I liked to eat.
Being treated with such warmth was so foreign to me that the wire that had been pulled taut all day unknowingly loosened.
Eventually, she asked what I liked to do, and I hesitated before admitting quietly that I liked to draw.
Masha's eyes lit up.
"Drawing? Then you absolutely have to see the glass greenhouse in the garden.
" She lowered her voice like she was sharing a treasure.
"Mrs. Romanov's away traveling right now, so the greenhouse is empty.
The roses are in full bloom—most beautiful in all New York.
If you go this time of day when the sunset hits the glass, bring a sketchpad.
You'll make something gorgeous, I promise. "
My fingers tightened around the board.
Maybe, I told myself, this manor wasn't so terrible after all. Maybe I could actually make a friend here.
I thanked Masha and carried the broom and cleaner back to the attic.
I spent the entire afternoon battling decades of dust. I dragged the broken bed frame into the hallway, wiped the floor inch by inch, cleared a barely livable corner, and spread the thin blanket from my suitcase over it.
By the time I finished, my hands were scratched with splinters, my fingernails packed with black grime.
I straightened up, wiped the sweat from my forehead, looked at the corner that finally looked somewhat human, and let out a long breath.
It certainly wasn't much. But it was the only thing today that had gotten better because of me. That, plus Masha's kind smile, actually loosened something tight in my chest.
To reward myself for the afternoon's work, I decided to follow Masha's suggestion and check out the glass greenhouse—spending some quiet time sketching there would be the perfect end to all that cleaning.
I dug my sketchpad and charcoal pencils from the bottom of my suitcase and followed the Manor's winding cobblestone path toward the greenhouse.
The moment I pushed open the glass door, I stepped into another world. Warm, humid air washed over me, mingling the scent of earth with rich roses. Overhead was a transparent glass dome, sunset light pouring down on those delicate petals. Breathtaking.
I found a corner and sat, propped the board on my lap. The charcoal whispered across paper, and my heart gradually stilled. I drew those thorny roses, and for that brief moment, last night's humiliation, the absurd wedding, the dusty attic—all of it stayed outside the door.
I lost myself in it. Lost track of time.
Not until the light completely faded and I couldn't see the lines on my paper did I realize how late it had gotten. I rubbed my stiff neck, packed the charcoal away, gathered my board, and headed for the entrance.
But when I pressed down on the handle, it wouldn't budge. I froze, gripped it with both hands, and pushed with all my strength.
The door didn't move.
My heart sank. I pressed my face to the glass, peering out by the dim light of the path lamps—someone had hung a heavy brass lock on the outside.
And Masha was standing right there.
Relief flooded through me. I called out, "Masha! Can you go find Richard? Someone locked this door."
Masha smiled faintly at me. "Madam, Mr. Romanov doesn't want to see you. Can't you just stay put?"
I froze completely. Before I could react, Masha was shaking her head and walking away, still smiling.
I closed my eyes, throat tight, almost laughing at myself.
I'd been too naive. I'd actually thought someone might genuinely befriend me when Dante had made his hatred so abundantly clear.
This situation was absolutely terrible.
My pockets were empty. My phone was still in my luggage in the attic. I had no way to call for help. I could only wait—wait for someone to happen past this remote path.
"Anyone there?" I pounded on the glass. "Open up! I'm still in here!"
No response. The vast back garden was silent as death.
Night fell completely, and a storm hit without warning, torrential rain pounding the glass roof like machine-gun fire, the temperature plummeting.
The winter rain was brutal. I wore only a thin sweater and a faded long skirt. The bone-deep cold quickly penetrated my clothes, stealing what little warmth I had left.
"Can anyone hear me—"
My voice was shredded by thunder and rain, couldn't reach beyond this greenhouse.
Time crawled by. The temperature kept dropping. My body started shaking uncontrollably, teeth chattering, fingers purple and stiff with cold. I couldn't even hold the sketchpad anymore.
Was I really going to freeze to death here? On my wedding night?
Just as my consciousness began to blur from hypothermia—
Through the rain-distorted glass, I caught sight of figures on the cobblestone path.
Leading them was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black coat. Several bodyguards in black suits held massive umbrellas, shielding him completely.
It was Dante. Just back from somewhere, heading toward the manor's main building.
"Dante!"
In that moment, I grabbed at my last lifeline and threw myself against the freezing glass door.
I slammed my hands against it, screaming for help with everything I had.
"Dante! Look over here! Please! I'm in here!"
Through the roaring thunder, he seemed to sense the commotion.
I saw him stop. The moment he did, the bodyguards stopped too, scanning the area alertly.
He slowly turned his head and looked toward the greenhouse through the heavy rain.
Lightning split the sky, bathing everything in sickly white light.
In that instant, our eyes met through the rain-streaked glass across the freezing air.
He saw me. He absolutely saw me.
My heart hammered, carrying a pathetically foolish hope. He'd have someone open the door, right? No matter how much he hated me, he wouldn't just stand there and watch me die.
But once again, I was wrong.
A moment later, Dante coldly looked away.
He turned back around and, surrounded by his bodyguards, walked straight toward the brightly lit main building.
Then disappeared into the endless rain.
He left.
He'd clearly seen me freezing, clearly heard me crying for help, and casually left me locked in this frozen cage.
All the strength drained from my body. My legs gave out, and I slid down the icy glass door to the floor.
This was the price he'd mentioned.
And this was only day one.