Chapter 11 – Ellie
I never imagined jealousy would feel like humiliation wrapped in heat.
For weeks, I’ve told myself that Mike is nothing to me beyond a captor turned husband—a ruthless man who forced me into a life I never wanted.
That story has been easy to repeat.
Easy to believe.
Until this evening.
Because the moment Anya walked into the estate unannounced, something inside me reacted with a violent surge of anger and jealousy I wasn’t prepared for.
The feeling is ugly.
Possessive.
And worst of all, it makes no sense.
We’re at one of the Rusnak estates in the city for another gathering. I’ve already learned that these events are rarely just social occasions. They’re power meetings disguised with champagne, music, and expensive clothing.
It’s my second time attending something like this.
This time I’m doing much more socializing.
Our extended family is here, and the wives, as always, are wonderful. Warm, witty, and far more welcoming than I expected from women married to Rusnak men. I’m especially happy to see Raelyn. We text each other every day since I have a phone now, but it’s not the same.
We’ve abandoned the men to their quiet conversations and moved out to the terrace.
Music drifts through the open doors from inside.
Elara brought champagne.
Vivian insisted on dancing.
The evening air is cool, the city lights glittering in the distance, and for a while I almost manage to forget the strange world I’ve been thrown into.
Then she arrives.
Anya.
I notice her the moment she steps onto the terrace.
She’s wearing a fitted black dress that clings to her body like it was sewn directly onto her skin. Her hair falls in sleek waves down her back, and her smile is bright as she greets people around her.
By now, I know something very clearly.
I do not like her.
At all.
But seeing her here does something worse than simple irritation.
A hot wave of jealousy crashes through me so suddenly that it makes my stomach tighten.
Especially because I know she used to be involved with my husband.
The thought makes my jaw clench.
I step away from the group and lean against the terrace railing, wrapping my fingers around the cool steel.
From here, I can see everything.
Anya moves easily through the crowd, laughing, touching arms, greeting people like she belongs here.
Maybe she does.
But every time she smiles at one of the men in the room, a sharp thought cuts through my mind.
Did she smile like that at Mike?
Did he look at her the way he sometimes looks at me now?
The questions make my grip tighten on the railing.
This is ridiculous.
I don’t want him.
I’ve never wanted him.
So why does the sight of her here make me feel like I want to bash her head against something?
“You look murderous.”
Raelyn’s voice slides in beside me.
I feel her step up next to me, but I don’t turn to look at her.
Because right at that moment, Anya starts walking straight toward my husband.
My fingers tighten around the railing.
Mike is standing with his brothers—Konstantin, Sebastian, and Dimitri—deep in conversation. The four of them form a quiet, intimidating circle of dark suits and controlled power.
And Anya walks straight into it like she belongs there.
Raelyn follows my gaze.
“Oh,” she murmurs beside me. “That explains the murderous part.”
Anya greets the men easily, smiling like she’s known them all her life.
Which, knowing this world, she probably has.
Konstantin nods politely. Sebastian says something that makes her laugh. Dimitri gives her a brief greeting.
Then she turns to Mike.
My stomach twists.
She reaches out and touches his arm.
Not casually.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
My jaw tightens.
Then she leans in close—close enough that her lips brush near his ear as if she’s whispering something meant only for him.
Something intimate.
Heat floods through my chest so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
Raelyn lets out a low whistle.
But before the moment can stretch any further, Mike shifts.
He brushes Anya’s hand off his arm.
It’s subtle and almost dismissive. Anya rolls her eyes and touches him again.
I don’t wait to see what happens next.
I move.
I cross the terrace with steady, measured steps, every movement deliberate, controlled.
Inside me, a storm is raging.
But no one here needs to see that.
By the time I reach them, the men have already noticed me approaching.
I step straight between Mike and Anya.
My shoulder slips past her as I physically insert myself into the space she occupied.
My hand comes up automatically, pushing her fingers away from Mike’s jacket sleeve.
The reaction across the terrace is immediate.
Not loud.
But noticeable.
Conversation softens. A few heads turn. The air shifts with a subtle ripple of tension.
Anya’s smile falters for half a second.
Then it sharpens.
Her eyes flick down to my hand, where it still rests lightly against Mike’s chest, before lifting to my face.
But I don’t move.
I stand exactly where I am.
Beside my husband.
Claiming a place I once rejected.
The silence stretches for a few seconds, thick with restrained hostility.
Anya’s gaze studies me carefully.
Measuring.
Calculating.
Then she exhales softly and smooths an imaginary crease in her dress.
“Well,” she says lightly. “Good to see you again, Mike.”
Her eyes flick briefly to Mike.
Then back to me.
“I’ll let you two enjoy the evening.”
She steps away with perfect composure.
But as she turns, her eyes slide back to mine one last time.
The look she gives me carries a quiet promise.
This isn’t over.
Then she disappears back into the crowd.
For a moment, the men say nothing.
Mike slowly turns his head toward me.
I expect anger.
Or irritation.
Instead, he looks intrigued.
Almost…pleased.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
Then he reaches for me.
Before I can react, he leans down and presses a soft, chaste kiss to my lips.
It’s brief, the kind of kiss that sends a clear message to everyone watching. My breath catches slightly as he pulls back.
His mouth brushes close to my ear as he murmurs quietly enough that only I hear it.
“Jealousy looks good on you, Ellie.”
The words are calm. Amused.
And the way his hand settles lightly at the small of my back promises far more than that innocent kiss ever did.
But I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
For the rest of the evening, I barely speak.
When people approach us, I smile politely and say the right things, but I avoid looking at him. When he murmurs something to me, I don’t respond.
The tension between us grows thicker with every passing minute.
By the time we leave the estate later that night, it feels like the air between us could spark.
The car ride home is silent.
Sergei drives.
Mike sits beside me in the back seat.
Neither of us speaks.
The city lights blur past the window while my thoughts churn in tight, angry circles.
The moment the car stops in front of the house, I open the door before anyone can help me and march inside.
I hear his footsteps behind me as I take the stairs.
Fast.
Heavy.
He’s following.
Good.
Because I’m not done being angry.
By the time I reach our suite, my pulse is hammering in my chest.
I push the door open and step inside.
Before I can move any farther, a hand closes around my arm.
I gasp as Mike spins me around.
His other hand comes up, cupping my chin firmly and forcing me to look at him.
“Solntse,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “Tell me what I did wrong.”
My anger surges immediately.
“You flirted with her.”
His brows pull together.
“With who?”
“Don’t play dumb, Mike,” I snap. “Anya.”
His grip tightens slightly, not painful—just enough to hold my attention. “I did no such thing.”
“Yes, you did,” I fire back. “She was practically in your arms.”
“She leaned close to speak,” he says flatly. “That’s not flirting.”
“She touched you.”
“And I moved her hand.”
“You still stood there letting her whisper in your ear!”
The words burst out sharper than I intended.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, breathing harder now.
His jaw tightens. “But you handled it.”
“She shouldn’t have been touching you!”
The room falls silent.
The words hang in the air between us.
Mike studies my face like he’s trying to understand something.
“Why?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard.
“Why what?”
“Why does it bother you?”
My mouth opens.
Then closes again.
Because the answer sitting on the tip of my tongue is one I refuse to say out loud.
His eyes darken slightly as he watches me struggle for words.
“Ellie,” he murmurs.
The way he says my name is different now.
Lower.
Rougher.
My pulse jumps.
“This anger of yours…” he continues quietly, stepping closer. “It doesn’t feel like indifference.”
His hand is still holding my chin.
His thumb brushes lightly along my jaw.
The movement sends a strange shiver down my spine.
“You said you don’t want me,” he murmurs.
My breath catches.
“But tonight,” he adds softly, “you looked ready to kill a woman for touching me.”
My heart is beating so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
“I was not,” I whisper.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Then rises again.
“You were,” he says.
The space between us has vanished completely now.
“I don’t care!” I fire. “Do what you want!”
His eyes darken, and anger rolls off him in waves.
“Okay then, Ellie,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “I’m going to do what I want.”
Before I can even blink, he clamps a hand over my mouth, silencing my protest. In one swift, powerful motion, he flips me until I’m facing the wall, pinning me against the cold surface.
I try to speak, but he clamps harder, his palm a warm, unyielding barrier.
With his other hand, he yanks my dress up my legs, the fabric bunching around my waist. My body instantly melts with a treacherous desire as I moan against his hand.
He doesn’t hesitate; he yanks down my underwear and immediately sinks his fingers deep inside my heat.