Chapter 9 – Sofia
Since my books arrived at the house a few days ago, I feel calmer. Like I can breathe properly again. Like this place—this massive, quiet, too-perfect place—might actually belong to me for as long as I’m here.
Or at least… not feel like a prison.
I set one of the books down on the bedside table and run my fingers over the spine again, just because I can. It’s a small thing, but it makes everything feel more normal. Familiar. Mine.
My husband still isn’t around me. He’s still distant. Still careful.
It’s strange because after that day he helped me with the box, I thought something had shifted. I thought there was a softening. A beginning. I thought maybe we could at least be civil with each other.
Maybe even speak without that heavy silence between us. But he’s pulled away again. Like whatever almost happened between us was never real at all.
So I’m alone again.
I should be relieved. And part of me is.
He isn’t hovering. He isn’t controlling. He isn’t trying to force anything from me. There’s no pressure. No expectations I can feel pressing against my skin. That should be a good thing.
That should be exactly what I wanted.
And yet…
A small part of me—one I don’t fully understand—misses his presence. His intense presence. The way he enters a room and everything becomes aware of him, even if no one speaks. The way people straighten without being told.
And most of all… the way his eyes move over me. Not in a soft way. Not in a kind way either. In a focused way.
As if he’s trying to understand something I have not said out loud yet.
I press my fingers against the book tighter. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I prayed for distance when I married him. I prayed for space. For peace.
For exactly this.
And now that I have it, I don’t know why it feels wrong.
The house is quiet this afternoon. Footsteps from the hallway echo faintly, then fade. He is somewhere in the house. I know that without seeing him. I always know.
I stand and walk toward the window, pulling the curtain slightly aside.
The grounds stretch out below—too green, too controlled, too perfect to feel real. Guards move at the edges of the property like shadows pretending to be men.
And somewhere in all of that structure… he’s there. And somehow, he can’t even be bothered to speak to me. I turn away from the window and go back to my book.
But the words blur almost immediately.
I read the same line twice.
Then a third time.
Nothing sticks.
My mind keeps drifting—restless, unsettled in a way I don’t like.
After a while, I close the book with a quiet sigh.
I need to move.
I need air.
I need something that isn’t this room, this silence, these thoughts I don’t fully understand.
I leave the room and step into the hallway.
Since I arrived, I’ve restricted myself without really thinking about it. My room. The library. The foyer. The dining room. Safe spaces. Predictable spaces.
That’s it.
Now I’m bored. The house is huge enough to explore, so I walk. Slow at first, then with more confidence as I move deeper into the house.
I stop in front of doors I’ve never opened before.
Some rooms are ordinary—guest rooms, empty offices, spaces that feel like they exist just to fill the structure of the house.
Others are locked.
I frown at one of them for a moment longer than necessary before moving on.
Eventually, I hear a faint thud of impact followed by movement.
I follow the sound without thinking, curiosity pulling me forward before caution can stop me. The sound grows clearer as I get closer. I reach another door.
It isn’t locked.
It’s slightly ajar.
I push it open.
And stop.
It’s a home gym. Large. Clean. Expensive equipment lined neatly across the room like it’s been placed with purpose rather than used casually.
One entire wall is a mirror.
Music plays softly through hidden speakers—low, steady, almost hypnotic.
And there Lukyan is. He’s working out. Focused. Completely unaware of anything beyond what he’s doing.
He wears a sleeveless shirt that clings to him in places where sweat has darkened the fabric. His arms are exposed, muscles tightening and releasing with each movement. There’s sweat on his skin. Enough to make him look… real. Human. Unpolished in a way I haven’t seen before.
I don’t mean to stare, but I do.
He hits another rep.
My fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the door.
I should leave.
I should close it quietly and go back to my room like I didn’t see anything.
But I don’t move. He’s so ridiculously hot, it’s almost unbelievable.
He finishes the set and sets the weight down carefully, taking a breath through his nose. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just stays where he is, hands resting lightly on the bar as his chest rises and falls.
Then, slowly, he straightens.
As if he’s known I was there long before I stepped into view.
He turns slightly toward the mirror first, his gaze catching something in the reflection, and only then does he look directly at me.
Even from the doorway, even with distance between us, I feel it immediately—the shift in attention, the way the room seems to narrow around that single point between us.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just looks at me.
I should leave.
That thought comes late, as if my body hasn’t caught up to what my mind already knows.
But I don’t move.
Not yet.
And neither does he.
We stay like that for a moment longer than necessary, the silence between us stretching in a way that feels heavier than the room itself, until I become painfully aware that I am standing in a space I was never invited into… and somehow don’t want to leave as quickly as I should.
His eyebrow lifts. The gesture is small. Cocky. Infuriating.
Heat rushes straight to my face. Oh God. He knows. He absolutely knows I was standing there staring at him.
Mortified, I turn on my heel and practically flee. I don’t stop until I’ve reached the safety of my room and closed the door behind me. Then I lean against it and groan.
“Idiot.”
My voice sounds far too loud in the empty room. I push away from the door and pace once across the carpet.
So what if he’s attractive?
That doesn’t mean anything.
I’ve seen attractive men before. I’ve met attractive men before. None of them have reduced me to acting like an awkward teenager caught passing love notes in class.
Yet somehow, one raised eyebrow from Lukyan Rusnak has me fleeing down a hallway like a criminal. I hate that. I hate how aware I am of him lately.
His voice. His presence. The way he seems to notice everything without saying much at all. With an irritated sigh, I climb back onto the bed and open my book.
Reading has always helped. Books make sense. People don’t.
For a while, I manage to lose myself in the story. The familiar comfort of words slowly settles my thoughts until I’m finally beginning to relax.
Then there’s a knock at the door. I glance up. One of the maids, probably. They regularly bring tea or fruit during the afternoon.
“Come in.”
The door opens. And Lukyan walks in. My stomach immediately drops. He’s changed since I last saw him.
The sleeveless workout shirt is gone, replaced by dark sweatpants and a fitted black thermal that somehow makes him look even broader than before.
I look away. Unfortunately, my reaction only seems to make me more aware of his presence.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
The question comes out sharper than intended.
Lukyan remains near the doorway. One shoulder rests casually against the frame. Completely at ease. Completely unfair.
“Can I not come see my wife?”
My head snaps back toward him. The word wife settles strangely in the room and causes warmth to rush between my legs.
For a second, I forget what I was going to say. Lukyan watches me. Patiently. Like he’s waiting for something. Then one corner of his mouth shifts. Not really a smile, but blinding nonetheless.
His gaze moves over my face. “You’re blushing, Sofia.”
My eyes widen in sheer horror. His expression remains entirely deadpan, which only makes the mockery worse. He is teasing me. And he is enjoying every single second of it.
The utter humiliation of the moment burns through my veins, and before my filter can stop me, the embarrassment morphs into pure defense. I snap.
“If you’re quite done staring, please leave and let me get back to my reading,” I say, my voice clipped as I gesture aggressively toward the open book in my lap.
Lukyan lets out a low, mocking scoff, his shoulder still propped casually against the frame. “So, you’re the only one allowed to stare?”
I gasp, the sheer audacity of his words striking a nerve. I turn fully toward him, my eyes flashing with sudden heat.
“I wasn’t staring!” I lie through my teeth, my chin lifting defiantly. “I came looking for you to tell you something. I left only because I saw you were busy.”
He tilts his head, his dark gaze tracking the defensive rise and fall of my chest. He doesn’t look even remotely convinced. “Is that so? And what exactly did you come to tell me?”
I lock eyes with him, and the words immediately die in my throat. My mind races, scrambling frantically for a lie, a cover story, anything that sounds remotely plausible.
But under the weight of his stare, my brain short-circuits. I struggle for words, the silence stretching between us until I finally just blurt out the raw, frustrating truth that had been eating at me all afternoon.
“I miss my old life,” I say, the confession sounding breathless and sharp. “Life here is boring.”
The amusement vanishes from his face instantly. His eyes narrow to dangerous slits, and a sudden, predatory tension ripples through his frame. The playful atmosphere evaporates, replaced by a cold, suffocating gravity.
He pushes off the doorframe.
Slowly, deliberately, he stalks into the room, his movements entirely unhurried but carrying the terrifying weight of a predator cornering its prey. I instinctively tense, pressing myself slightly back against the pillows as he closes the distance between us.