Chapter 6 - Victoria
The smell of coffee drifts through the house, pulling me out of my sleep and reminding me that I’m nowhere near home.
Vegas is my turf…
Right…definitely not home.
That anxious fluttering returns to my chest when I eventually get out of bed and pad across the floor to try the door.
To my surprise, the doorknob gives way as I turn it despite how Roman had locked me in last night. With a small push, I’m suddenly not confined to the bedroom anymore.
With some hesitation, I wander down the hall and take everything in. The floor is cold beneath my feet and sends a chill up my spine that seems to linger the farther I go.
The house is quiet in an almost deceptive way. It’s peaceful, yet something seems to linger in the background like a calculated plot. Or maybe I’m just paranoid and more informed about Roman than I ever should’ve been.
I don’t know him or what he’s truly capable of, but given the house and everything he has done to me so far, I can just imagine the lengths he’ll go to.
Taking the stairs slowly, my hand trails down the polished banister, and when I reach the main floor, I realize I’m not alone.
There’s a commotion but the front foyer, and before I know it, several men are walking towards me.
My eyes widen slightly, and I find myself stepping out of the way while they come in, wearing neat suits and neutral expressions.
I half expect them to shout at me or put me in my place, but instead, some nod in my direction while they wordlessly move up the stairs. Almost like they know me, or, at the very least, are showing me respect.
And, of course, they’re carrying things. Dozens and dozens of bags and boxes—all with designer names written in modern text across the bags with their associated logos, with tissue paper sticking out of some, and others looking far too big for any casual shopping trip.
Some have hangers draped over their arms and shoulders, others have towers of shoeboxes in their arms. It’s quite the sight as they move onward like a small army, hauling these various things inside.
Standing there, I can only watch as they head up, wondering what’s going on.
One of them calls back, “Where do you want the rest?”
“Upstairs in the guest bedroom.”
That voice registers immediately, and sure enough, Roman enters on his phone, tapping his screen with a neutral expression.
He’s dressed as expensively as the contents in the shopping bags, with dark slacks and a crisp navy button-down. The fabrics are neatly pressed, his hair is perfectly groomed, and everything about him looks so intentional that it’s almost irritating.
But even with his refined look, there are still parts that give away an effortlessly cool aura about him.
The stubble that’s both trimmed yet strangely rugged…the top few buttons being undone, and the way his sleeves are rolled up to just beneath his elbows.
He seems like such a polarizing person, as if he’s impossible to fully read or understand. Something about it is annoyingly attractive, too. Regardless of all his appeals, seeing him there is enough to make my stomach tighten with nerves.
When Roman looks up from his phone at last, recognition sweeps over him.
“You’re awake.”
He says it so casually, almost like we really are husband and wife. As if this is all perfectly normal and something we’ve been a part of for years.
Whether it’s the flurry of movement or just the fact that I’m quite literally a prisoner in that mansion, I feel unsteady on my feet. Disoriented by the ease with which everyone moves around me.
It almost feels like I’ve missed out on some kind of prerequisite to prepare me for the moment. For the brutal upending of my life, all on his whim.
As a light breeze travels in through the front door and brushes against my bare arms, I shiver and cross them over my chest. “What’s going on?”
Roman gestures vaguely to the men hauling the clothes upstairs as their polished shoes move along the hardwood floors in a distant chorus. “I had some clothes bought for you.”
Pausing, I blink back at him. “You what?”
A low chuckle escapes him, and he seems to be taking this far better than I am.
“You can’t possibly walk around in my clothes forever…so I did what needed to be done.”
The faint pull of his lips at the mention of it makes my face warm while he glances down at me, eyes raking along my form.
Pulling my attention to the black oversized shirt hanging from my frame, the reminder clicks. Even if it happened not that long ago, I already forgot about finding it sitting on the corner of the bed when I woke up.
After sleeping in my clothes from the day before, I just needed something else to slip into. While the shirt dwarfs me as it falls past my thighs, I don’t have anything else.
Well…I didn’t.
When I put the shirt on—his shirt—I was too distracted and disoriented by everything to care. But standing in front of him like this, wearing the fabric that smells like him, I feel far too exposed.
It’s almost…too familiar. Too intimate.
It shouldn’t, but something about that scent clinging to the shirt and surrounding me is exciting in a way.
I don’t know him, and being bombarded by his oddly nice smell shouldn’t bring me any kind of comfort. But somehow…it still does.
“Look…” I murmur, adjusting my arms over my chest while I still struggle to fully look him in the eyes. “All of this is unnecessary. I don’t need all of those expensive things.”
Roman’s brows lift slightly. “But you do now.”
“Why? Jeans and t-shirts are fine.”
His lip barely twitches. “Jeans and t-shirts are for civilians. Regular people—which you aren’t anymore.”
My brows pinch together. “Then what am I now?”
“My wife,” he says without missing a beat. “Regardless of my error, you’re legally my wife. And as my wife, this is your life now. Even if it bothers you, I take care of what’s mine.”
Even if he seems to mean it, I still find something vaguely mocking in his words.
Wife, care, mine...
Recoiling internally, I find myself pushing back against that reality.
Despite my reluctance to be part of this marriage in any way, I’m bound to him. Trapped in an arrangement I never agreed to.
Now, he’s dressing me up for the part. Fitting me to be some kind of wife he imagined.
“You have a funny way of disguising care as control,” I mutter, unable to catch myself before letting the words come out.
His gaze on me is unwavering. “Sometimes they look one and the same.”
As much as I want to snap at him, to show even a semblance of teeth in the face of everything he’s roping me into, I don’t answer.
It’s tempting to let my true feelings out and to be as incorrigible as possible, but something about him screams Don’t push it.
If I did, I’d find myself in a far worse position than I’m already in.
Instead, I look at him for another moment and decide I’ve had enough.
There’s a touch of smugness in the way his eyes gleam back at me, but for the most part, he seems sincere in his gesture.
Maybe in another timeline that would feel nice, but in this one, it irks me.
Turning on my heel, I move back up the stairs, careful to keep the shirt tucked in close around my body. Heading back to the room that’s supposed to be mine, I pass the men on their way out again.
Entering that space, it’s suddenly cluttered with things I never asked for—things I never needed.
Still, I push the door shut behind me and lean back against it. Pulling in a breath, I exhale until my lungs feel nearly empty again.
It’s too much…all of the bags and expensive things I never would’ve been able to afford in my lifetime…Roman’s words and intentions…the way it’s all happening so fast.
One moment, I was a teacher, finally pulling my life together after enduring year after year of pure shit. The next, I’m an unwilling wife. A prisoner, and one with far too many clothes.
Still…even if it’s excessive, I know Roman has a point.
I don’t exactly feel like wearing his shirts day in and day out. Especially not if he sees it in some territorial kind of way.
Moving over to the pile dropped off near the walk-in closet, along with everything else already inside, I grab the closest one and look inside.
The cashmere sweater is so soft that I can’t stop my fingers from running over the material multiple times. Another bag is full of different bottoms, from tidy slacks to more relaxed athletic wear. And in the third one, lingerie. All delicate lace and silk that would make anyone feel like royalty.
Some cruel, self-sabotaging part of me wonders if he picked them…
Shoving that thought aside, I slide the shirt off and toss it to the floor before taking my time getting dressed.
The brush of his shirt against my skin makes something move in my chest…an annoying flutter that I want gone as soon as it appears.
His scent hits me again, and it both makes me shiver and turns my stomach at the same time.
Even if the material of the new clothes is high-end and comes with a luxury price tag, the ensemble I chose feels simple and comfortable. It’s the closest thing to normal for me.
From upstairs, I hear Roman’s voice carrying through the house while he gives orders, sounding low and calculated. As measured as always, it seems.
It makes me wonder if he ever stops. If he ever just turns himself off and takes a break from it all.
Something in me doubts it.
But being in his house, hearing his voice, and having seen the way those men followed his orders without a second thought has my curiosity piqued.
I shouldn’t be intrigued by the man keeping me locked up in his house. I shouldn’t feel anything but fear and anger.
Truthfully, I should be finding a way out, both forceful and not. Not wondering what else his day looks like, or what he does outside of the house.
Drifting to the window that overlooks a perfectly manicured yard and every luxury granted to him, I sit on the chaise lounge and pull my knees up to my chest.
Swallowing hard, I can’t ignore the faint yet ever-present shake in my hands or the way my chest aches with a hollow feeling.
It doesn’t matter how soft the cashmere is or how comfortable the bed is. It all comes with chains.
The house isn’t mine, and I’m certainly far from free.
Still, I’m not even me anymore. Not completely.
I’m his…legally a Lukov. I can’t even begin to process what that all means.
Even if I didn’t choose it for myself, it was forced upon me, and I don’t know how to digest it.
Or how I’ll ever be able to accept it.