Chapter 7 #2
"Elena?" Olga's voice pulled me back.
"What?" I answered, still foggy.
"Kiryan is cold. He talks like a brick." She handed me the warm water. "He is used to giving orders. He doesn't know how to make people feel okay. I'm not telling you to forget what he did. I'm telling you—if he truly doesn't care, he would have left before the doctor ever arrived."
I looked down at the water trembling in the glass.
Most of the time, when Kiryan spoke to me, it sounded like an interrogation. It was hard to fit that voice next to the idea of care.
"You don't have to comfort me," I said, taking a sip to wet my raw throat.
I knew what I was in this marriage. I knew why he didn't want me.
Today's care had been duty. Anyone who got sick under the Morozov roof—he wouldn't just let them die.
"I don't say things I can't back up," Olga said, her tone firm and heavy. "I watched him grow up. He never does what he truly doesn't want to do. And he damn sure doesn't personally take care of someone he doesn't care about at all."
"He isn't going to like me," I said, pressing my tongue behind my teeth to keep my voice steady.
One breakfast and one wiped tear didn't erase what he'd said before. It sure as hell didn't change what he'd felt for Isabella.
"I think you two have a lot of misunderstandings." Olga's voice stayed calm. "Believe me, he isn't as awful as you think. And I hope you don't decide he can never change. You'll live together a long time. You're a good girl."
My mouth twisted into a bitter little smile. Nobody changed him but Isabella. I'd never been more certain of anything.
"He hates me because of Isabella. And because of this marriage." I dropped my gaze, tightening my grip on the glass.
The water was warm. It still felt cold in my hands.
"He thinks he hates you," Olga corrected. "Kiryan always treats his judgments like facts. Once he decides something, nobody pulls him back. But today, he stayed in your room a long time."
"Maybe he just thinks I am a problem."
"Then why did he feed you himself?" She held my eyes, certain. "I saw it from the doorway. He was gentle when he fed you the porridge."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Olga watched me struggle and spoke even more softly.
"His father only taught him how to solve things with fists and power. Nobody taught him how to be kind to someone. The lady—his mother—she loved him, but she..." Her voice caught. "She died too early. The only marriage Kiryan saw growing up was coldness, cheating, and screaming."
In my mind, I saw a younger Kiryan—small, trapped, helpless. My chest tightened.
"So he doesn't trust people, and he doesn't know how to show he cares." Olga sounded sad, but steady. "That doesn't excuse what he did. But it means... today, him taking care of you wasn't just because of a piece of paper."
I thought of the semolina porridge. I thought of the lingering warmth at the corner of my eye.
"But he loves Isabella." Even saying it made my chest ache.
"I met Isabella," Olga said, her tone going flat. "She knows exactly when to smile—right before someone turns their head. She knows whose names to remember and whose to forget. She always knows what everyone can give her."
I didn't defend my sister. A party from years ago flashed in my head.
Back then, in front of everyone, she'd given me an expensive dress, saying she couldn't bear to buy it for herself.
But the waist was a full size too small, and the color made my freckles stand out like a spotlight.
When her friends laughed at me, she wrapped an arm around my shoulders and told me sweetly not to mind them.
In the end, everyone remembered her generosity—and my humiliation.
"You aren't like that." Olga's gaze softened.
"You were sick and you still worried calling a doctor would be trouble for the staff.
The girl who helped pack up your painting supplies yesterday—she came back and kept asking about you.
She worried because you looked like you were about to cry, and you still didn't take it out on her. "
"Thank you," I said, my throat tightening. "But I'm not as good as you make me sound."
"You're better than Isabella," Olga said. "I like you. When Kiryan really knows you, he'll like you too."
I didn't answer. I just gave her a polite little smile.
Olga didn't know how obsessed Kiryan had been with Isabella. But I did.
The night of the engagement party—when he'd mistaken me for Isabella—he'd kissed me warm and gentle, like he meant it.
In the thickest part of his desire, he'd said my sister's name.
Every praise, every touch had belonged to her.
Then the lights came on, he saw my face, and all that softness turned to disgust. I knew better than anyone who he really wanted.
Kiryan taking care of me today might have proven he wasn't a monster. It didn't prove he could ever love me. Duty, guilt, even pity for a sick woman—none of that was love.
I had married the man I'd liked for years. It should've been the happiness I'd dreamed about.
But once I became his wife, I had to live in the room farthest from him, listening to him tell me again and again that I wasn't Isabella. That kind of life hurt more than never having him at all.
He was in this house. We shared the same marriage.
And I still couldn't get anywhere near him. Not really.