Chapter 5
Elena
The afternoon after the wedding, I moved into the Morozov manor.
I carried a pathetic amount of luggage, and Kiryan stayed a few steps ahead of me the whole time.
He didn't bother introducing me to anything. Like the person trailing him wasn't his new wife, just some piece of cargo he had to stash somewhere.
The second-floor hallway ran longer than I'd expected. I followed him past door after closed door until we stopped at the very end. It had to have been the farthest corner room on the entire floor—there weren't even other rooms nearby.
"You'll live here," he said, expression flat as he pushed the door open.
The room was bigger than my bedroom at the Rossi house. Bed, wardrobe, vanity—everything was there. He didn't need to spell it out. He gave me what Mrs. Morozova was supposed to have, but he had no intention of letting me anywhere near him.
"Understood," I said quietly.
I had never expected him to put me in his room. After last night's death-warning bullshit, a door I could close already counted as safety.
He didn't leave right away. He stayed in the doorway and swept his gaze over me.
"From now on, you stay in your room." His voice stayed cold. "Except for meals and occasions where you have to show up as Mrs. Morozova, I don't want to see you. Got it?"
It was exactly what I'd expected. Still, hearing it out loud punched a hollow space in my chest—raw, aching.
"I got it. I stay in my room as much as possible." I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and forced the lump down. "I don't interfere with your life."
Mrs. Morozova. The title sounded so high and polished, but all I could do was appear when it was required, keep the surface pretty for this marriage deal. The rest of the time, I'd do what I'd always done at the Rossi house—be someone who didn't exist.
"You'd better." Kiryan dropped the words and walked away without looking back.
His steady footsteps faded down the hall. Even when silence settled again, I still stood by the door.
Starting today, I lived in the same manor as a man who hated me.
At the wedding, when that ring slid onto my finger, I'd felt a stupid little jolt—almost hopeful. For half a second I'd imagined us eating breakfast at the same table, bumping into each other in the halls. Those fantasies had shattered the moment he'd tried to shove me down the stairs.
I shut the door and set my suitcase down. I didn't have time to wallow. I had something more important to do.
From the very bottom of the suitcase, I pulled out my treasures: a few worn paintbrushes, a dozen paint tubes crushed out of shape, and several paintings wrapped carefully in moisture-proof paper.
They weren't worth much money, maybe, but they were the first things I'd packed when I left the Rossi house.
They were some of the only things that had ever been mine.
I peeled off the dress that made my skin crawl and pulled on an old oversized shirt. The cuffs and placket were stained with paint that would never come out, but it felt better than any expensive gown ever had.
At some point, rain started falling outside.
The drops tapped the glass in a tight, steady rhythm, muffling everything else in the manor. I set an unfinished commission on my folding easel.
It showed a mother and daughter. The woman who commissioned it wanted to keep her late mother alive on canvas.
She remembered her mother holding her as a little girl by the window, telling her stories over the sound of rain.
She was terrified that in a few more years, the details would blur, so she'd paid me to trap that night before it vanished.
Only three days were left until delivery, and I hadn't even finished half. If I didn't grind now, I'd miss the deadline.
Suitcase and wrapping paper littered the floor. I didn't bother cleaning. I went straight for the parts that needed fixing.
Colors blended on the palette until they hit the shade I wanted. The moment the brush touched the canvas, my head finally quieted. When I painted, I didn't have to remember who I was. I wasn't the useless second daughter of the Rossi family. I wasn't the "bad woman" who stole her sister's marriage.
I didn't know how long I'd been working.
The door slammed open, and I realized I hadn't even heard footsteps outside. I jerked around, my hand shaking. The tip of the brush almost dragged color across the client's mother's face.
Kiryan stood in the doorway. His eyes skimmed over the unpacked luggage and scattered paper, then locked on my brush.
"What are you doing?"
I shoved the brush behind my back without thinking.
The move happened faster than my brain. At the Rossi house, I'd always hidden my painting from my father. The second I heard a door open, I'd snatch up brushes and paint and hide them. Even now, even here, the habit hadn't died.
Kiryan stepped in and shut the door with one hand.
"What are you hiding?" His voice dropped. "I already saw it."
"I didn't mean to keep it from you." I clenched the brush behind my back. "It is a commission I haven't finished. I have to deliver in three days."
He walked to the easel and looked at the painting without saying anything. Then his gaze slid down to my clothes.
"You are Mrs. Morozova now." He looked at me, brow tightening. "Stop doing this low-class shit."
My chest cinched hard at that.
"Painting isn't low-class," I shot back.
The second it left my mouth, I regretted it. But I couldn't make myself trash the one thing I loved.
"Remember who you are," Kiryan said, his eyes turning darker.
"I am just telling you it isn't what you said. It is my job. It is my career."
"Career?" He said the word like it was a joke. "You lock yourself in a room wearing a rag, covered in paint. That is your career?"
"I always wear it when I paint. The stains don't come out, but the shirt is clean." I kept my chin up and held his stare.
That paint-smeared shirt felt like my pathetic little battle flag—like wearing it gave me a sliver of spine.
"You've barely walked in here, and you've already made yourself look poor on purpose.
" He closed in until one of his legs slid between mine, crowding me back.
"You want the staff to think I wouldn't even buy you decent clothes?
Or you want everyone to pity you for marrying a man who treats his wife like shit? "
My body tipped back until my spine hit the wardrobe.
"I don't want that."
"Then why did you hide it the second you saw me?" He grabbed for the brush and yanked.
Instinct made my fingers clamp down. Our hands crushed together on the narrow handle. His palm scraped my knuckles—rough calluses dragging slowly over skin—then he ripped the brush away like it was nothing.
The bristles were old, the paint on them dried stiff. He pinched it between his fingers, but the heat of his hand lingered on the back of mine.
"Because my father didn't allow me to paint," I said, forcing the words out. "If he found out, I had to hide everything immediately. It was just... a habit."
Kiryan didn't soften. He clearly took my explanation as another performance.
"You always find a way to play the victim. Make yourself look pitiful."
"I'm not playing anything." The unfairness I'd swallowed for too long tore up my throat, and my voice rose. "You are the one who decides everything I do has an ulterior motive. No matter what I say, you never believe me."
"At least Isabella knew how to keep herself presentable." His tone stayed sharp. "She wouldn't wear that, wouldn't turn the room into a dump, and she sure as hell wouldn't just hunch her shoulders and act innocent when someone questioned her."
Every word landed dead center on my wounds. Every breath I drew hurt.
I knew I didn't measure up to Isabella. I'd known from the start. My father said it. The servants said it. Now Kiryan said it too. Like as long as Isabella existed, everything I did would always be wrong.
"I never said I could replace her." My throat tightened. "You were the ones who shoved me into her spot."
Kiryan's face went hard.
"Save it. I don't want to hear that shit again."
He turned his head and barked toward the hall.
"Come in."
A maid who'd been waiting outside pushed the door open and stepped in. She'd obviously heard the argument—anxiety flickered across her face, badly hidden.
"Take all of it out. Throw it away," Kiryan said. He handed her the brush, then pointed at the easel and the paints scattered nearby.
My mind went blank. He was going to trash my supplies? My paintings? Because they weren't "classy" enough?
"No." I moved fast, planting myself in front of the easel, clutching the palette and paint to my chest.
Kiryan's gaze snapped back to my face.
"This is my house. You don't get to refuse my orders." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that crushed air out of the room.
I had to do something, or my work would end up in a dumpster.
"They aren't trash," I said, words tumbling out. "They are my tools. Those paintings include other people's commissions. I took deposits. I have to finish them."
The maid stood there holding the brush, looking at Kiryan, then at me, stuck.
"I can pack it all back into my suitcase. You won't even have to see it." It came out like begging because it was. "They matter to me. Please—don't throw them away."
"Stop putting on a show. I don't buy it." Kiryan looked at the maid, who still hadn't moved. "Do I need to say it again?"
I hugged the supplies tighter, refusing to let go. But I knew she couldn't disobey him. If I kept fighting, she might be the one punished. None of this was her fault.
Slowly, I loosened my grip and handed everything over.
She took it with both hands and said under her breath, "I'm sorry, ma'am."
Then she lifted the painting off the easel, gathered the rest—one by one, with their moisture-proof paper—and hugged them to her chest. Not long after, the door shut again. The messy room suddenly looked stripped bare. The easel still stood by the window, but the canvas was gone.
"Since you stole Isabella's place," Kiryan said, his voice ice-cold, "you pay the price."
His stare cut from my eyes to my mouth, hungry and invasive. I licked my dry lips, and my body went tight in an instant. That rough, loveless kiss at the wedding flared back to life. He saw my reaction. Of course he did.
"Just because I touched you doesn't mean you get to fantasize about me accepting you," he said low. "And don't you dare expect I'd ever love you."
That hurt worse than the insults. Because I had fantasized.
"I don't," I lied.
"You'd better not." His expression eased a fraction. "There is a banquet in a week. You come with me. You wear something you can be seen in, and you drop the miserable little act."
"I understand." I lowered my eyes. "That day, I show up exactly how you want."
He looked at me one last time, like he was deciding whether I could actually do what I'd said. Then he walked out, his footsteps fading away.
The second they disappeared, I bolted.
The maid was already gone. I sprinted downstairs and didn't see any sign of my things.
Fuck. Where had they thrown them?
I grabbed the first servant I passed and asked. She told me the manor's trash went out the side door to the backyard, then got hauled away by a pickup.
I ran for the side door, nearly slipping on the wet floor more than once. The moment I shoved it open, icy rain smacked my face.
Several huge black dumpsters sat in the yard. In the distance, the iron gate hadn't fully closed yet, and a garbage truck was already pulling onto the road outside the manor. They'd clearly taken one load.
"Wait!" I screamed and chased it.
Rain and engine noise swallowed my voice. The truck didn't slow, didn't even flinch—just gave me its taillights and kept going.
All I could do was pray my stuff was still in the dumpsters. I didn't stop for an umbrella. Every second mattered. I lunged to the nearest dumpster and flipped the lid, then the next, then the next.
Rotting food, empty bottles, soaked paper—all of it mashed together. The stench slammed into my nose. I dug through it anyway, filthy water sticking to my hands.
"Not this fast..." I whispered, searching every corner like it might magically appear.
Nothing.
The rain came down harder. Wet hair plastered to my cheeks. When I finally lifted my head from the last dumpster, something inside me went cold and dead. My things were gone. My paintings were really gone.
Those brushes were what I'd bought with the first money I'd ever made selling a painting anonymously. I'd stretched those paints for months, squeezing out every last bit. In the pieces they'd taken, there were unfinished commissions—and so many works I couldn't bear to destroy.
They were pieces of me I'd hidden, inch by inch, inside that suffocating life at the Rossi house. And now, everything I'd treasured had been tossed out like garbage and hauled away. I leaned against the freezing dumpster, my legs giving out until I slid down and sat in the mud and runoff.
Rain hit my face nonstop, mixing with my tears, running into the corners of my mouth—bitter enough to choke me.
My father hadn't allowed me to paint. Isabella had laughed and called my work worthless. And now Kiryan had thrown it all away like it meant nothing.
I'd thought that once I left the Rossi house, at least I could keep this one thing that belonged to me.
But in that moment, I finally understood I hadn't gotten freedom.
I'd just been moved from one cage into another—colder, crueler, and locked even tighter.