Chapter 21 – Elara
I wake to the soft hush of morning, the kind that should bring peace—but doesn’t. The manor feels too big, too still, too empty without him. Sunlight filters through the window, warm and golden, but it only sharpens the ache in my chest.
Roman is gone.
He’s gone to lead his men into battle. This time against my father’s network. Against the same darkness that’s haunted both of us since the beginning.
I pull the sheets closer, his scent still clinging to them—smoke, cedar, something warm and restless. My chest tightens.
Last night replays in my mind like a fever dream. His hands on my face. His voice breaking open the silence between us. I love you so much, Elara.
I didn’t think I’d ever hear those words from him. Roman has always shown it—in the way he touches, shields, and fights for me—but to hear it out loud…it undid something inside me.
I love him too.
I want him to return so I can scream it to the skies, sing it from the rooftops until the whole world knows—I love him. So much it almost hurts. The kind of love that burns through fear, through reason, through everything I used to believe about safety.
Tears sting my eyes as I stare out the window, the morning stretching endlessly before me. I hope he’s safe. I hope he comes back to me in one piece.
Because I know my father. I know the kind of man David Chang is—vicious, cruel, unrelenting. He doesn’t forgive, and he doesn’t lose.
And Roman…Roman has walked straight into his storm.
I stay in bed all day, cocooned in silence. Even when the maids knock with breakfast, I tell them to leave it by the door. I can’t eat. I can’t move. The sheets still smell like him—cedarwood and smoke—and every breath I take feels like punishment.
I stare at the ceiling until the light shifts from morning to afternoon. The world moves on outside my window, but nothing interests me. Not food. Not conversation. Not even the sunlight that used to make this room glow.
All I can think about is Roman. Where he is. Whether he’s still breathing. Whether the man I love is fighting for his life while I lie here, useless and afraid.
By late evening, I finally cave and turn on the TV, hoping for a distraction—anything to stop the loop of worry in my head. Maybe a mindless movie. Maybe some noise to fill the silence Roman left behind.
But as the screen flickers to life, my heart stops.
My father’s face fills the screen—stern jaw, eyes red and swollen like he’s been crying for days. He’s seated in some glossy conference room, a microphone in front of him, press lights flashing from every direction.
“My daughter,” he says, voice trembling, “has been kidnapped by the Russian mafia.”
I blink once. Twice. The words hit me like a slap.
He pauses, just long enough for the cameras to drink him in—his grief, his supposed pain—before lowering his head. When he looks up again, tears spill down his cheeks, perfect and practiced.
“She is being held against her will,” he continues, his voice breaking. “By a man named Roman Rusnak.”
My stomach flips. I can’t breathe. I can hear the sniffles, the reporters murmuring, the clicking of camera shutters.
He weeps crocodile tears for the cameras, his shoulders shaking just enough to look convincing. Every second feels like a performance—every tear, every pause, perfectly timed for sympathy.
The reporters eat it up. “Mr. Chang, do you have any proof?” someone asks.
He presses a hand to his chest. “Proof?” His voice cracks. “I don’t need proof to know my daughter would never willingly stay with those people.”
My vision blurs. Heat rushes up my throat.
Those people.
He’s painting Roman as a monster. Me as a helpless, brainwashed girl. And the worst part? The world will believe him.
I grab the remote, ready to throw it, but my hand trembles so badly I can barely keep my grip. I want to scream at him, tell him to stop lying, stop twisting the truth, stop pretending he’s a father who gives a damn.
But all I can do is sit there, heart hammering, watching him cry for the world—while I, the daughter he claims to love so much, sit here trapped between anger and fear.
Roman. Please don’t see this. Please don’t let this make you reckless.
My father keeps talking—spinning lie after lie, his voice heavy with false heartbreak.
“She’s always despised the Russian mafia,” he says, wiping his eyes with a trembling hand. “She told me once she wanted nothing to do with them. That she feared what they’d do if she ever crossed their path. They’re animals, she would say.”
My stomach knots so tight it hurts. I can feel the blood drain from my face, my pulse pounding in my ears.
All lies.
Every word that falls from his mouth is a weapon—each one aimed carefully, methodically, meant to tear down whatever fragile peace I’ve built with Roman. Me, the poor kidnapped daughter. Him, the savage captor. It’s a story the world will love, because my father knows how to play the hero.
The humiliation burns through me first—hot and sharp. Then the fury follows, darker, heavier, curling in my chest like smoke.
He’s weaponized my pain. The same man who controlled, belittled, and broke me has now turned my suffering into his public performance.
I press a hand to my mouth, shaking my head as the cameras flash around him. “You bastard,” I whisper under my breath. “You absolute bastard.”
Tears sting my eyes—not from sadness, but from the sheer rage coursing through me.
“I will never forgive you for this,” I whisper into the empty room, my voice trembling but sure. “Never.”
The words are barely gone when I hear glass shattering. A sharp, violent sound that slices through the stillness of my room. My head jerks toward the window, and my breath catches in my chest.
One of the guards is climbing in. His name is Oleg, or something similar.
I don’t really remember, only that I’ve seen him around the halls before—tall, quiet, never meeting my eyes.
For a second, I think he’s come to check on me.
But then why’s he coming in through the shattered window? He jumps inside.
And that’s when I see them—more men following him.
Figures in black, slipping through the broken window like a swarm of shadows. My scream rips free before I can stop it. The first man lunges at me, and another behind him. I stumble back, knocking over the lamp, my heart pounding so hard I can barely think.
“Help!” I scream, but no one comes.
Hands grab me—cold, gloved, merciless. I twist, kick, and fight with everything in me. One of them curses when I claw at his mask. Another shoves me so hard my shoulder hits the wall.
“Roman!” I cry, desperate, my voice cracking. “Roman!”
I don’t even know why I’m screaming for him. He’s not here.
The guard—the same one who stood by the window—just watches. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat, and the sick truth settles in. He let them in.
“You—” I start, but someone slams a hand over my mouth.
The world turns chaotic. My feet drag across the floor, my breath sharp and ragged. They pull me toward the window, just as they came in. I fight, thrashing and kicking, my nails tearing at fabric and skin, but they don’t stop.
“Roman!” I scream again, but the night swallows my voice.
The last thing I see before they haul me through the window is the flickering TV screen behind me—my father’s face still frozen there, crying fake tears for a daughter he just sold to hell.