Chapter 11 – Sofia
Over the past month, things actually slow down.
The huge estate doesn’t feel like a total prison anymore, and I wrap myself in a quiet little routine.
I still know I can’t just pack up and leave, but that intense, burning anger I have at the start definitely softens into something else.
It’s a weird, complicated feeling I can’t really explain.
Most days, I just hang out by myself in my bedroom. I read my books, rearrange them on the shelves, and watch how the estate runs. Bit by bit, I manage to make this place feel a little bit normal.
It isn’t freedom. I know that.
There are still guards downstairs. Still locked doors. Still the uncomfortable knowledge that my life belongs to somebody else more than it belongs to me.
But the constant urge to fight every part of this situation has faded into something quieter. Something more confusing. Because despite everything, I’ve begun to know this place.
It no longer feels like enemy territory.
It feels familiar.
I know which windows catch the morning sunlight first. I know where the best reading spots are.
I know which floorboard near the library creaks when stepped on.
I know that Joy, the head chef, hums while she cooks and that Dmitri, one of the security guards, secretly feeds scraps of meat to the neighborhood stray cat whenever he thinks nobody is watching.
And somehow, those small things have made this place feel less temporary.
Less cold.
I don’t know what that says about me.
Probably nothing good.
I sit cross-legged on the floor of the library, sorting through a stack of books I recently finished. I’ve developed a habit of reorganizing them every few days. Different categories. Different shelves.
It gives my hands something to do.
My father used to do the same thing.
The thought appears unexpectedly.
As it always does.
Some days it hurts. Some days it doesn’t. Today it’s somewhere in between.
I run my fingers along a worn spine before sliding the book into place.
“Miss Sofia?”
I look up.
Maria, one of the housekeepers, stands in the doorway.
She smiles politely.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Rusnak asked me to let you know he’s waiting for you on the balcony.”
I blink.
For a moment, I’m convinced I’ve misheard her.
“Lukyan?”
“Yes.”
That’s all she says, as though that explains anything.
It doesn’t.
Over the past few weeks, Lukyan has become an expert at maintaining distance. Not avoiding me exactly. Just… keeping himself carefully out of reach.
We see each other at meals sometimes. Occasionally in passing. A few brief conversations. Nothing more.
Part of me had begun to think he preferred it that way.
The realization leaves me oddly disappointed.
Which is ridiculous.
I should appreciate the peace.
Instead, I find myself wondering why he’s suddenly looking for me.
“What does he want?”
Maria laughs softly. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
Fair enough.
I thank her and stand.
The moment she leaves, I smooth down my sweater and immediately feel foolish for doing it.
Why am I nervous?
It’s Lukyan. Not an exam. Not a job interview. Not anything remotely reasonable to be nervous about.
And yet my stomach feels strangely unsettled as I leave the library.
The balcony sits off the far side of the house, overlooking the gardens below. By the time I reach the glass doors, I can already see him.
He’s standing with his back to me. One hand resting on the railing. Dark clothes. Broad shoulders. The familiar silhouette instantly recognizable.
For some reason, I pause before opening the door.
The afternoon sun catches the side of his face as he turns slightly toward the skyline. He looks… thoughtful. Not his usual intimidating stance.
It’s such an unusual sight that I find myself staring.
Then the door slides open.
The sound makes him glance over his shoulder.
Our eyes meet.
Something shifts in his expression. Subtle. Gone almost immediately.
But I catch it.
And suddenly, my pulse feels a little too fast.
Before I can dwell on it, something at the far end of the balcony catches my eye.
I turn. And stop. A gasp escapes me. A table has been set near the railing overlooking the grounds. A dinner table.
Two chairs face each other beneath the soft glow of hanging lights. Candles flicker inside glass holders, their reflections dancing against the balcony windows. Plates, silverware, wine glasses, and covered dishes have all been arranged with quiet precision.
It’s beautiful. Thoughtful. Like something planned carefully.
For a moment, I can only stare. Then I look back at Lukyan. “What is this?”
His gaze follows mine toward the table. “Dinner.”
I blink. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.”
I narrow my eyes. He almost smiles. Almost.
“What’s going on?”
His expression softens slightly. “I thought we could eat together.”
The answer only confuses me more. “Why? Why not at the dining table?”
The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Lukyan’s gaze settles on me. He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches just long enough for me to realize he’s actually considering his words.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before.
“Because we never had the chance, zaychik.”
I frown. “The chance for what?”
“To know each other.”
The answer catches me off guard. For a second, I don’t know what to say. Lukyan looks away briefly, his gaze drifting toward the city lights below. When he speaks again, there is none of his usual teasing in his voice.
“Our marriage started badly.”
An understatement if I’ve ever heard one.
His mouth tightens slightly. “I know that.”
I remain silent. Because I want to hear what comes next.
“We were thrown into a situation neither of us chose.” He pauses. “And after that, I didn’t exactly make things easy.”
I stare at him. Waiting.
Partly because I can’t believe this conversation is happening.
Partly because I don’t want to interrupt it.
Lukyan exhales. “I should have handled some things differently.”
The words seem difficult for him. I can tell he isn’t used to saying them. An apology. Not wrapped in speeches or excuses. Simple honesty. Coming from Lukyan, it somehow carries more weight because of that.
“I can’t change how things started,” he continues. “But I’d like to stop acting like we’re strangers living in the same house.”
My throat feels unexpectedly tight. For weeks, I’ve been trying to understand this man. Trying to decide whether he hides an agenda. Trying not to notice the moments when he seems different from the person I convinced myself he was.
And now he’s standing in front of me, offering something I never expected. Effort. A genuine one. The realization leaves me momentarily speechless.
Lukyan studies my face. Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him. Because his expression eases slightly. Then he holds out his hand. The gesture is so simple. So unexpectedly old-fashioned.
For a second, I simply stare at it. Then I place my hand in his. His fingers close gently around mine. He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t pull. Just waits until I stand beside him before guiding me toward the table.
Lights glitter around us. The candles flicker softly in the evening breeze. And somehow, despite everything, my nerves return. This feels important. Because of what it means.
Lukyan pulls out my chair. I sit down, still trying to process what’s happening. Across the table, he takes the seat opposite mine.
Now, it doesn’t feel like we’re captor and captive. Or reluctant husband and wife. Just two people sitting down together. Trying to begin again.
The realization should make me uncomfortable. Instead, it makes me nervous.
The food is already waiting on the table, filling the air with warm, familiar scents. For the first few minutes, neither of us says much. We eat. We avoid looking too directly at each other.
At least I do.
Every time I glance up, I find Lukyan already watching me.
Not in the intense way he sometimes does. But very closely. As though he’s genuinely interested in whether I’m enjoying myself.
It’s strange. Stranger still is how much I enjoy it.
“So,” he says eventually, setting down his glass. “How many books do you own?”
I laugh softly. The question catches me completely off guard. “That’s your opening question?”
“It’s important. You love books.”
“I do.”
“So how many books do you own?” His eyes shine with amusement. It feels like I’m in a dream.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Sofia…”
“I don’t.”
His eyes narrow.
“Fine.” I sigh dramatically. “A few hundred.”
Lukyan almost chokes on his drink.
I laugh heartily. “What?”
“A few hundred?” He shakes his head. “And you’ve read them all?”
“You bet.”
“Damn.” He grabs his glass and knocks back whatever liquid is in it.
I point a fork at him. “I see you own a library with so many books. Why are you surprised?”
He shrugs. “It’s literally just decor. I haven’t read more than twenty books in my whole life.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He bites back a grin. “But I’m glad I have it since that’s where you spend all your time.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach at the casual way he says it. “If you need any specific book stocked, just let me know. I’ll get it for you.”
I can’t help smiling.
The conversation flows more easily after that. We talk more about books first. My favorite authors. The novels I reread every year.
The embarrassing phase I went through when I was fifteen, and became convinced every brooding fictional hero was secretly misunderstood.
Lukyan finds that far more amusing than he should.
“Let me guess,” he says. “You thought you could fix them.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
“You just admitted I’m right.”
Unfortunately, he is.
The annoying part is how pleased he looks about it.
As the evening continues, I find myself talking more than I intended. About school. About university. About the tiny apartment I rented after graduation. About the bookstore near my old neighborhood that used to let me sit for hours without buying anything.
Somewhere along the way, I start talking about my father. Not the painful parts. Not the loss. Just the memories. The good ones.
How he always bought me books for my birthday.
How he’d leave notes between pages for me to find later.
How he taught me that libraries weren’t just rooms filled with books.
They were collections of lives.
Lukyan listens quietly.
Never interrupting.
Never pretending to understand things he doesn’t.
When I finally stop talking, I realize he’s been completely focused on me the entire time.
No phone.
No distractions.
“What about you?” I ask.
He leans back slightly. The movement feels careful. Measured. He’s deciding how much he wants to give away. “My childhood wasn’t very interesting.”
I immediately snort. A man like Lukyan has never been uninteresting a day in his life.
His eyes narrow. “I’m serious.”
“You’re impossible to imagine as a child.”
That earns a genuine laugh. My stomach does a strange little flip.
“I was a normal kid.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“I climbed trees. Did everything other kids did.”
I blink. “You climbed trees?”
“Frequently.”
Now I’m staring. The image is so absurd I can’t help it.
Lukyan notices. He looks mildly offended. “What?”
“I just can’t picture it.”
“I went through the toddler, preschooler, and middle childhood stage, Sofia. Not born forty.”
I laugh loudly. The sound escapes before I can stop it. For a second, I freeze. Because I realize this is the first time I’ve laughed like this since coming here.
Hours seem to pass without me noticing.
The conversation shifts from one topic to another. Travel. Food. Childhood disasters.
At some point, Lukyan admits he once broke his arm trying to jump from a shed roof, and his brother Samuel helped snap it back in place. I laugh so hard I nearly spill my drink.
His expression suggests he regrets telling me. Which only makes me laugh harder. The strange thing is how natural everything feels. There is no tension. No power struggle. Every minute that passes makes it harder to hold on to the version of him I’ve spent months believing in.
The cold man. The controlling man. The man who ruined my life.
He’s still those things. Part of him, anyway. But tonight I see something else too. A man capable of patience. Humor. Kindness. A man who listens more than he speaks. A man who arranged a dinner simply because he wanted to know me better.
That knowledge unsettles me. It changes things.
Eventually, the conversation slows. Neither of us seems eager to end it. I glance across the table. Lukyan is already looking at me. The candlelight catches the sharp angles of his face.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence feels different now. It’s softer. Something shifts inside me. A feeling I’ve been trying not to examine too closely. Something warmer. Something that makes my pulse stumble whenever he looks at me for too long.
I don’t have a name for it yet.
Or maybe I do.
Maybe I’m simply unwilling to say it out loud.
Either way, I know one thing.
The man sitting across from me is becoming harder to resist. And that clarity follows me long after the candles burn low and the evening finally comes to an end.