Chapter 9 – Elara
I just said goodbye to Sasha and Jennie a few minutes ago, and I’m back in my room. Meeting Jennie for the first time, I already like her. Seems all the wives have a good head on their shoulders. The men? Not so much.
Now that I’m alone, the loneliness hits me like a punch to the chest. My chest tightens, and for a second I feel tears prickling at the edge of my eyes.
I push it away. I haven’t cried since that fateful dinner, the night my father put me on display like some object to be bought. I won’t cry now. Not here. Not for him.
I pace the room instead, restless, running my hands over the smooth surfaces of the furniture as if to ground myself. Every corner, every decoration screams wealth and control. Roman’s wealth, his control. And me? I’m trapped in the middle of it.
I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to steady my breathing. The door remains open. He hasn’t locked it. No guards outside. A subtle move, a power play, reminding me I’m free to walk…but not free to leave.
I hug my knees to my chest, forcing myself to think of anything else.
The library, the smell of paint, the corner where I let my creativity flow like air—I close my eyes and see it again.
My hands moving over the canvas, the world narrowing to colors and strokes.
For a few hours, I had been free. For a few hours, I had been me.
But now, the memory only makes the walls around me feel smaller. I don’t belong here. Not in this mansion. Not in this life.
And yet…I can’t help but wonder how he is right now. Roman. The storm I can’t escape, the cage I can’t unlock. Even the thought makes my chest tighten—not with fear, not entirely—but something else. Something I’m too stubborn to name.
I press my palms to my face, letting out a shaky breath. I won’t cry. I won’t give him that satisfaction. Not today.
I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday. The bastard. He tried to speak to me once, and when I ignored him, he just pulled away. Jerk. Not like I care or anything.
We’d locked eyes for a moment in the garden, and honestly…what’s up with that man? His soul feels dead or something. His eyes are completely lifeless, like a frozen lake. No warmth, no anger, no joy—nothing. I can’t even tell what he’s thinking.
Thankfully, the girls moved away soon after, and I didn’t see him again. It’s easy to take my mind off him when I don’t have to look at him. Every time I do, I feel like I’m staring at something I shouldn’t—something dangerous. So I just don’t.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I call, my voice calm even though my heart starts racing.
For a second, I think it’s Roman. I can hear muffled voices outside, and one of them is Luka’s. I brace myself, spine stiffening. But when the door opens, it’s not Roman who steps in. Not Luka.
It’s Vivian.
My best friend.
She looks as immaculate as always—silk blouse tucked into tailored pants, pearl studs glinting against her skin, a vintage handbag dangling from her wrist. She looks so out of place here, like she stepped out of a Parisian painting and accidentally wandered into a cage.
My mouth falls open. “Viv.”
“Oh, Elara.” Her voice cracks, and then she’s rushing toward me. Tears spill down her cheeks as she pulls me into a hug.
“Oh, Viv, I missed you so much.” I bury my face in her golden-brown bob, breathing in her familiar perfume—something floral and expensive—and hold her tightly. She feels like a piece of home, something real and soft in this strange, cold place.
Vivian Laurent—Franco-Russian, born into old money, the kind of dynasty that smells like power and oil. She grew up in New York’s high society, speaks French, Russian, and English like music, and could charm the pearls off a duchess if she wanted.
We met at university—me, the quiet scholarship girl who didn’t fit in, and her, the quiet, elegant rebel pretending she didn’t care about the cage she was born into.
She’s always been strategic, graceful, and dangerously smart. But more than anything, she’s been loyal—to me. Even when she doesn’t understand what I’ve gotten myself into, she’s here.
Like now. Yeah, I know Roman made it happen, but seriously fuck him.
When we finally pull apart, I guide her toward the bed, still trying to process that she’s actually here—real, warm, alive.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I breathe, watching her as she sets her bag down neatly by the nightstand.
Viv sighs, brushing a short strand of hair behind her ear. “Elara, I’ve been trying to reach you for days. We don’t go this long without talking. I was starting to lose my mind.” Her tone is light, but her eyes are worried. “I almost called your father, just to make sure you were okay.”
My chest tightens at the mention of him.
“Then,” she continues, “I got an invitation from a Roman Rusnak to attend your wedding, and I didn’t even think twice. I jumped at it.”
Despite the warmth I feel seeing her, I frown. “Viv, are you insane? You shouldn’t just jump at an invite from a stranger, especially one connected to the Rusnaks.”
She laughs, the sound delicate but edged with confidence. “Please. I’m not some sheltered princess. I know who the Bratva are, and I’ve heard of the Rusnaks. I even know a few of them.” She pauses, eyes gleaming. “Though not this particular one.”
Then she leans forward, takes my hands in hers, and lowers her voice. “Elara…are you really getting married?”
Tears prick my eyes before I can stop them, the pressure building in my chest until I just let it all spill out.
I tell her everything—from the night I stormed my father’s townhouse to confront him, to that godforsaken dinner where I realized I was the item being traded.
How I planned to run, to disappear, but instead ran straight into Roman Rusnak.
How he kidnapped me. How now, my choices are simple: marry him or die.
By the time I’m done, Viv’s mouth is hanging open. It’s such a rare sight that I actually laugh—wet, shaky, but real. “It’s hard to catch you without your composure,” I murmur, wiping my cheeks.
She blinks, utterly horrified. “This sounds like a horror movie. What?”
“It is, Viv,” I whisper. “A very real, very fucked-up one. I don’t know what to do.”
Vivian exhales shakily and shakes her head, eyes flashing. “I didn’t think I could hate your father more, but apparently, there’s still room for it.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “And Roman, God, I don’t even know how to feel about him.”
“I just feel like I’ve lost myself, you know?” I whisper. “I’m glad I didn’t end up in my father’s hands, but…what if this is worse? What if I just traded one monster for another? Roman doesn’t seem the same, but what if I’m reading him wrong?”
Vivian’s eyes soften, her fingers squeezing mine. “Then you find a way to survive, Elara. You always do.”
“I’m not that strong, Viv.”
Vivian reaches for my hands again, her grip firm and warm.
“Listen to me,” she says, voice steady, eyes glinting with that sharp steel I’ve always admired.
“Whatever happens—whatever scandal, whatever storm—I’m not leaving your side.
If the world turns its back on you, you’ll still have me, Elara. Always.”
Something inside me breaks at that. Comfort and shame twist together until I can barely breathe. I don’t deserve her loyalty, not when I’ve let myself be caged again, this time in silk instead of chains.
“Viv….” My throat tightens. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m marrying a man I didn’t choose.”
She squeezes my hands harder. “Then we’ll find out who you are again. You’re still Elara Chang. You’re still the girl who always stands up to her father in a room full of men. Don’t forget that.”
A small, trembling smile tugs at my lips. For the first time since all this began, I feel the faintest flicker of hope.
Vivian smiles back, brushing a tear from my cheek with her thumb. “Besides,” she adds softly, “if Roman Rusnak thinks he’s marrying a quiet little doll, he’s in for a surprise.”
Despite myself, I laugh, and for a moment, just one fragile moment, it feels like I can breathe again.
“Enough about me,” I say, waving my hand. “Tell me what you’ve been up to, Viv. What’s the latest chaos in high society?”
Vivian rolls her eyes dramatically and leans back on the bed. “You have no idea. Last week, I went to this ridiculous socialite party in Paris—where everyone pretends they’re there for charity, but really, they just want to show off their diamonds and bad facelifts.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling out before I can stop it. God, it feels good to laugh again.
“Oh, it gets better,” she continues, smirking. “One of the women brought her poodle dressed in Chanel. The dog had pearls, Elara. Pearls. Then her husband tried to flirt with a model and ended up spilling caviar all over the Minister of Trade’s wife’s dress. I swear, it was chaos.”
I double over laughing, clutching my stomach. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I was. You’d have loved it. It’s one of the reasons I was so frustrated when I couldn’t reach you. I was dying to tell you everything.” Her tone shifts slightly, softer now. “That night, I almost called your father, you know? Just to make sure you were okay.”
The laughter dies in my throat. My smile fades, replaced by a dull ache in my chest. “I’m glad you didn’t,” I say quietly. “You’d have walked straight into a trap.”
Vivian’s expression hardens, the playfulness gone. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here now,” she says firmly. “You’re not facing any of this alone, Elara. Not anymore.”
I nod, blinking hard. She always knows when to pull me back from the edge.
We spend the rest of the evening doing what we’ve always done best, talking about everything and nothing. We laugh until our stomachs ache, eat the dinner Luka sends up for us, and for the first time since I got here, I forget where I am. I forget that I’m a prisoner in a gilded cage.
By the time the clock creeps close to nighttime, Vivian is yawning every five minutes. I catch it and smirk. “Tired already? You’ve gone soft, darling.”
“Soft?” She scoffs between another yawn. “I’m twenty-five, Elara. Excuse me if I’m not exactly in my prime. But it’s all good. We should catch up more.”
I laugh, but I can see the fatigue in her eyes. “You should sleep,” I say.
“I’m fine,” she insists, crossing her arms. “I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”
“You’re not leaving me,” I tell her softly. “You’re just going next door.”
She sighs, finally giving in. “Fine. But if you need me, please call me.”
I roll my eyes. “Good night, Viv.”
I walk her to her room. She’s only four doors down from mine, and I watch her set her bag on the dresser. She looks back at me, eyes soft. “I still can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“Don’t remind me,” I say, forcing a smile. Then I lean forward, press a quick kiss to her cheek. “Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nods, and I step out, closing the door quietly behind me. The hallway feels quieter than usual, too quiet. For a moment, I just stand there, hand on the door handle, listening to the silence before walking back to my room.
When I push the door open, my heart nearly stops.
Roman is standing by the window, hands tucked into his pockets, half of his face washed in the amber glow of the lamp. The air feels heavy and charged.
I freeze in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just turns, storms over, shuts the door behind me with a soft click, and faces me fully. The silence between us stretches like a wire pulled too tight.
Finally, he says, “I know you’ve been sabotaging your father’s laundering since you were eighteen.”
I blink. “What?”
He takes a slow step closer, his gaze sharp enough to slice through me. “Don’t play dumb, Elara. You rerouted his transactions before he could make the sales. You’ve been bleeding him dry from the inside for years.”
My mouth goes dry. My pulse is a wild, uneven rhythm in my chest. “How—how do you know that?”
“I make it my business to know everything about my enemies,” he says evenly. “And the night I caught you in that museum, I figured why you were there. What I don’t know”—he tilts his head, studying me like I’m some puzzle he’s finally piecing together—“is why you started doing it so long ago.”
I take a shaky breath, my throat tightening. He knows. He knows. No one was ever supposed to know. Not even my father.
“Do you have some personal motive in all this?” he asks, voice low but sharp. “Because what you did wasn’t random. You were deliberate. Methodical. That’s not rebellion, Elara; that’s a vendetta.”
I shake my head quickly. “There’s no personal motive.”
He studies me for a second too long, and before I can move, he steps in—fast—closing the distance until my back hits the wall. My breath catches as his palm slams flat beside my head. The force vibrates through the plaster.
“Then why?” His tone drops lower, rougher. “Why the hell would you risk your life for something that had nothing to do with you?”
His proximity burns. I can feel the tension in his body, the control he’s barely holding on to.
I meet his gaze, pulse hammering in my ears. “Because I’m not his pawn,” I hiss. “And I won’t be yours either.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Our faces are inches apart. His breath fans against my lips, steady but heavy, and the air between us crackles. It’s sharp, electric, unbearably intimate.
He doesn’t kiss me, but God, it feels like he might. My chest rises and falls too fast, and before I can stop myself, my eyes flutter shut, expecting something I’ll probably regret.
But nothing happens.
When I open my eyes, he’s already stepped back. The distance he creates feels cruel, deliberate. My face burns with humiliation, but I mask it quickly, straightening my shoulders.
“The dress for the wedding will arrive tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice back to that calm, unnerving tone. “I picked it out myself. I hope you like it.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns and leaves, the sound of the door closing echoing in the silence he leaves behind.
I stand there trembling—half in fear, half in something I don’t want to name.
Two things are true: I’m attracted to Roman, and I’m an idiot.