Chapter 6
Kiryan
The chair across from me stayed empty.
I cut into the fried eggs on my plate, and the yolk slid down the blade in a slow, thick stream. The wall clock had already pushed past nine. Elena still hadn't shown.
Last night a maid had told me Elena had stood there and watched them haul off her canvases and paint, then had run out into the rain, chased them to the backyard, and dug through the dumpster for a long time.
She probably thought that if she dodged me with that silent little rebellion, I'd feel guilty for tossing her stuff.
I shoved the eggs to the edge of the plate. A few seconds later, I dragged them back. That smear of gold made my skin crawl.
What the hell did she have to be mad about? If she hadn't driven Isabella off and schemed her way into the Morozov family, I wouldn't have touched her things. Everything she was dealing with now? She'd brought it on herself.
I looked at the maid standing off to the side.
"Pera. Why didn't Elena come down?"
Pera had been setting a tray—thin semolina porridge, a glass of water, fever meds. At my voice, she froze.
"Madam said she doesn't feel well. She isn't coming down for breakfast. The kitchen already prepared her food. I was about to take it upstairs."
Madam. The word scraped my nerves raw. She'd been here one day and everyone was already treating her like the real lady of the house. Things were sliding out of my hands faster than I'd expected.
"Don't."
"But sir, Madam hasn't eaten since last night." Worry pulled at Pera's face.
"She said she didn't feel well and you just swallowed it?" I set my fork down. My appetite died on the spot. "Playing the wounded little martyr is her favorite trick. You called her 'madam' a couple times and she probably started believing she deserved it."
The dining room went dead quiet. The other staff kept their heads down, no one daring to breathe wrong. Pera still held the tray like it weighed a ton.
"Take it away." I stared her down. "Today, nobody brings Elena food."
"Nobody brings who food?"
A woman's voice cut in from the doorway—full, sharp, and fearless.
Olga.
She'd been my mother's maid once. Now she ran this manor for me. She'd been here most of her life, had watched me go from a kid who couldn't hold a gun steady to a Pakhan people stepped aside for. She was the only one who still spoke to me like that.
Olga walked in, peeled off her gloves, and handed them to the servant behind her. Her gray-white hair sat perfectly in place. Her shoulders stayed square, strong from years of work.
She glanced at the tray on the table, then at me. No fear in her eyes—just that blunt, pissed-off look an elder gave when they caught you being stupid.
"This doesn't concern you." I lifted my coffee and drank.
"Your mother gave you and this house to me when she died. Not so I could stand here and watch you treat people like dirt." She stopped across from me. "Now tell me. Who isn't allowed to eat?"
If anyone else had talked to me like that, they'd have been tossed out of the manor before they finished the sentence.
Nobody challenged my place in my own home for a woman who'd just walked through the door.
But Olga had taken care of me since I was a boy.
After my mother died, she'd treated me like her own son.
She wasn't my subordinate. She was one of the few people on earth who could make me swallow my temper and listen.
I kept my voice cold. "Who else? My lovely wife. Elena doesn't want to come down. She is upstairs pretending to be sick."
Olga's brows pinched.
"Have you checked her?"
"No."
"Not even a look, and you decided she lied." Olga held my gaze. "Kiryan, since when did you start judging people on nothing but your own prejudice?"
I said nothing.
Pera glanced at Olga, lips parting like she wanted to jump in.
Olga caught it. "You saw Elena this morning?"
"Yes." Pera hesitated, then rushed on. "Madam's face looks flushed. Her forehead feels hot. I wanted to call a doctor, but she said she just needs rest. She doesn't want to cause trouble."
"Stop making excuses for her." Irritation snapped through me. "If she is really that sick, she'd make damn sure everyone knew it."
Olga's expression darkened. The restless anger I'd been holding all morning churned up in my chest.
"She drove Isabella away. She climbed into my bed when I was drunk and forced my hand." The words came out like gravel. "Now she just wants sympathy with a little fever act. It isn't the first time she's pulled shit like that."
"Whatever your reasons for marrying, Elena is your wife now. She is Mrs. Morozova." Olga's disapproval didn't soften. "You don't have to like her. But you have to give her basic respect."
"Respect isn't stolen."
"But she is already in this family." Olga shoved the tray toward me. "If she needs to eat, she eats. If she needs a doctor, she sees one. And the staff follows protocol and calls her 'madam.' If you are so sure she is lying, you go upstairs and see it with your own eyes. Take her breakfast."
I stared at the tray and didn't move.
Olga sighed, her voice dropping. "When your mother suffered the most, your father stood back and watched her with cold eyes, just like this. Do you remember how much you hated him for it?"
My mother's eyes—dull, emptied out—flashed through my head without warning. My gut twisted like someone had grabbed it and wrung it hard.
I stood up fast enough to scrape the chair behind me. Olga didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
I held there a second. Then I finished my coffee in one last swallow, set the cup down hard, and grabbed the tray.
"If she is faking, I'll make sure she learns what that costs." I turned and walked out.
It was just breakfast. And when Elena's lie got exposed, I'd make it crystal clear—pulling stunts like this only earned her a higher price.
The second-floor hallway lay quiet. At the far end, Elena's door sat slightly open. I knocked twice. No answer. I went in.
The curtains were drawn. An empty easel still stood by the window. Yesterday's scattered luggage had been put away, neat and tight.
Elena lay in bed, curled under the blankets, only her face showing—flushed deep red.
Her freckles looked darker under the heat.
Her eyes stayed closed. Her breathing came shallow and quick.
A few strands of hazel hair clung to her cheek, making her look smaller than usual, swallowed by that oversized bed.
She looked too young—too wrong—for this marriage deal.
No timid apologies. No obvious, clumsy lie.
Quiet Elena didn't seem as unbearable.
She almost seemed... cute.
The thought surfaced, and I crushed it.
I set the tray on the nightstand and leaned in, pressing my hand to her forehead. My palm could've covered half her face. Her lashes brushed my skin, a faint tickle. If her eyes had been open, I would've accused her of trying to seduce me again.
Heat burned against my hand.
She hadn't lied. She was really sick.
Her lashes fluttered. I yanked my hand back. She opened her eyes. When she realized it was me, confusion flashed first—then instinct made her shrink deeper into the blankets.
"You're this bad, and you didn't say anything?" The words came out, and I heard something in my voice that wasn't just accusation.
She didn't seem fully awake. A few seconds passed before she answered, barely a whisper. "It is just a fever. I would've slept it off."
Her voice sounded raw, almost gone.
"You're burning up, and you're still trying to act tough." The sliver of concern pissed me off. I straightened, rebuilding the line between us. "Who are you putting on that pathetic look for this time?"
She stared at me like she couldn't process it. Then those hazel eyes filled with something she couldn't hold down—hurt, sharp and bright.
"Am I really that awful to you?" Her voice trembled, but she didn't look away like she usually did. "Even getting sick is a scheme. Even staying in my own room is me begging for pity. What did I do that made you think I can't even breathe without some ulterior motive?"
Her sudden pushback caught me off guard.
I'd never seen her like this. The woman who always kept her head down, who couldn't even finish defending herself—now she glared at me, eyes red.
"If you don't feel well, you could say so."
"And what would that change?" Elena tried to sit up. Her body wobbled.
My hand lifted before I thought, almost reaching for her waist. Then I remembered exactly who she was, and I stopped myself cold.
"If I told you, would you believe me? Even if I begged you to call a doctor, you would say I was just trying to milk your sympathy." She dragged in a breath, stubbornly holding my gaze.
"I wouldn't—"
"You would." She cut me off for the first time. "To you, I am the woman who drove Isabella away, climbed into your bed, and did whatever it took to become Mrs. Morozova. If you already decided that, what difference does it make whether I speak up or not?"
Her eyes burned at the corners. Tears gathered fast.
"If you don't say anything, how am I supposed to know?" I watched her teeter on the edge, and my voice dropped without permission.
Before, every time I confronted her, the first thing out of her mouth was sorry. Even with her shoulders shaking, she'd lower her eyes, like if she stayed quiet enough, everyone's anger would pass over her quicker.
But today wasn't like that. The fever burned away her caution. Everything she'd swallowed—about life, about her family, about me—spilled out, out of control.
"I knew it would end up like this," she muttered.
"No matter where I go, nobody ever likes me.
I try so hard to be careful. I don't fight Isabella.
I don't make Father mad. I stay out of your way.
You don't like my paintings, so I begged you to let me hide them.
I just want to keep something that is mine. Why is that still not allowed?"
Her tears finally fell.
"I know I am not pretty. I have freckles.
I am not like Isabella—beautiful, effortless.
I don't even know how to make people like me.
Father said I wasn't someone he could show off.
He said my art was trash." Her voice got softer and softer.
She wiped the tears hard, and more spilled right back out.
"And now you think I don't deserve to be Mrs. Morozova either. "
"Elena."
"This whole thing is wrong." Her voice broke.
Her body shook with it. "The one who should have married you was Isabella.
She is pretty. She is polished. Everyone loves her.
Not me. I shouldn't have walked into the wrong room.
I shouldn't have liked you. I shouldn't have been standing where she belonged.
But none of this was my plan. So why does everyone keep telling me I ruined everything? "
She cried with no guard up, laying the ugliest pieces right in front of me. For the first time, I couldn't explain Elena away as manipulation.
I remembered her yesterday, planted in front of her easel. She'd been scared of me, and she'd still talked back. Then after I left, she'd run out into the rain and ripped through the trash just to get back what I'd thrown away.
If she only wanted the title Mrs. Morozova, why did she treat a few worn-out brushes like they mattered more than anything?
I hesitated. Then I reached out anyway and wiped the tears off her face. She froze. Her skin felt shockingly hot.
"Eat something." I picked up the bowl of semolina porridge and brought the spoon to her lips.
Elena looked at me, slow and dazed, like she couldn't understand why the man who'd just shredded her was now sitting on her bed feeding her.
"Didn't you think I was faking?" Her voice came out thin. Her hot breath fell over my knuckles.
"You weren't." Admitting it made my tongue feel thick. "Now eat. Don't make me say it twice."
She didn't argue again. She ate a few spoonfuls in silence, then swallowed the fever pills under my watch.
Every time her lips and the tip of her tongue brushed the spoon, my fingers tightened on their own. It made no sense. I blamed the heat in the room and refused to think about it.
When she lay back down and finally fell asleep, I let out a breath.
I'd been so sure she'd fooled everyone.
But maybe the one blinded by prejudice the whole time had been me.