Ch 9: Not a Volkov
The silence from the bathroom was a held breath, a coiled tension waiting to explode through the door.
Elena pressed herself against the bedpost, still trembling and listening. Nothing. No water running. No movement. Just a pressurized quiet that suggested violence was not gone.
She couldn't stay. The room was no longer a sanctuary—if it had ever been one. His confusion in that final moment was more dangerous than his rage. Rage had rules. Confusion had none.
She needed a different dark corner. Somewhere to wait until his attention drifted elsewhere.
She pushed off from the bedpost, legs threatening to buckle. The emerald silk whispered with every movement. She wanted to tear it off, to be free of its betraying rustle, but that would mean staying longer.
Elena moved to the bedroom door and pressed her ear against the wood. Nothing from the hallway.
She turned the handle slowly, winced at the soft click, and slipped out. She left the door ajar—she didn't dare make a second sound—and fled into the shadows.
The mansion at night was a different beast. Grandiose halls became canyons of gloom. Her bare feet—she had kicked off the heels somewhere in the corridor—made no sound on the cold marble.
She didn't head for the linen closet. Marco's grip was still fresh, his threat echoing. That sanctuary was poisoned.
The kitchen was out of the question—the memory of the pastry that felt like a trap.
Her feet carried her toward the east wing—guest suites and forgotten rooms where a ghost could hide.
She turned a corner, seeking the archway to a small terrace she had once glimpsed. A stone box open to the sky, tucked away from the main flow of the house. It might be safe.
She was wrong.
The terrace doors were open. Cold sea air curled through, carrying a salty, pungent scent. And against the night sky stood a silhouette—the ember of a cigarette pulsating like a red eye in the darkness.
Valentina.
The woman turned at the sound of Elena’s breath. Her movement was smooth, lethal. A predator who knew its prey had nowhere to run.
The candlelight caught her face and the simmering fury in her eyes.
Elena froze. Flight might have been possible a second ago, but her body locked in place. Now she was caught.
Valentina's eyes swept over her—the tear-streaked powder, the hair slipping from its pins, the crumpled, ill-fitting dress. They cataloged every flaw.
"Well." Her voice was like claws unsheathed. "Look what the storm washed up."
She stepped forward. Each step forced Elena back into the adjacent sitting room.
"Lost, little thief?" A slow smile touched her lips. "Or did he already toss you aside?"
Elena's gaze dropped to the floor in submission, automatic as breathing.
"Don't you dare look away from me." Valentina closed the distance. "You don't get to hide after what you did tonight."
She was close now. Close enough for Elena to smell her floral perfume warring with the sharp tang of cigarette smoke.
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"This dress." Valentina's gaze crawled over the silk. "You look pathetic in it. Do you even know who it was made for?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
"It was meant for a respectable woman. Someone who would stand beside Kaz, not cower at his feet." Valentina's voice dropped. "A woman who would be an asset. Not a joke."
Another step.
Elena's back hit a small, delicate writing desk. Nowhere left to retreat.
"You are a stain on that dress." Valentina leaned in, her face inches away. "You make this family look weak."
Elena stared past her at the swirling grain of the terrace door.
Be the wood. Be the grain. Be nothing.
"You sat there tonight, in that dress, and you said nothing. Did nothing. You are a void. A silence where there should be a voice. You are nothing."
The word landed. It didn't wound. Elena had known she was nothing long before Valentina said it. She wanted to be nothing.
But her lack of reaction was the final spark. Valentina's hand flashed out.
An open-handed slap that cracked across Elena's cheek. Her head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed across her face, cutting through her fog. A soundless gasp escaped her.
"Look at me!" Valentina snapped.
Before Elena could comply, Valentina's fingers tangled in her hair and yanked—hard, pulling her head upright by the roots.
Pain shot through her scalp. Tears sprang to her eyes.
"There." Valentina hissed, her face inches away. "Finally, a reaction. Good. You should feel pain. You should feel every second of the humiliation you've caused."
She held the grip for a long moment, then released Elena with a shove that sent her stumbling against the desk.
Valentina's gaze fell to the dress again. To the buttons, the decorative pins. "This is an obscenity on you."
Her hands dug into Elena's shoulders. She spun Elena around and shoved her forward against the desk.
Rrrrip.
The first rip was loud. Cold draft hit her back.
Rrrrip.
Another section gave. A pin scraped against Elena's skin.
Valentina wasn't removing the dress. She was destroying it.
Elena didn't move. She braced herself on the desk, head bowed, tears rolling silently down her stinging cheek. The physical violation made sense. This was the world she knew: the strong hurting the weak.
With a final, furious wrench, Valentina tore the last pinned section. The dress sagged, held on only by Elena's arms and the front closure. She gave Elena a shove.
"Get it off." Her breath came fast. "I don't want to see a single thread of it on you."
Elena's hands trembled violently, fumbling with the remaining buttons. Eventually, they gave way. The silk slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
She stood in her thin chemise and underwear. The cold night air raised goosebumps on her exposed arms and back.
Valentina stared at her, chest rising rapidly. The fury drained from her face, replaced by something colder, more exhausted.
"That's all you are." Valentina's voice was flat now. "A scared little girl in underclothes. Not a wife. Not a Volkov. A mistake that needs to be corrected."
She stepped over the ruined silk. As she passed Elena, she leaned close.
"He will break you." A final curse, soft and absolute. "You're only a pawn."
Then she was gone, footsteps fading down the hall.
Elena stood motionless. Her cheek throbbed. Her scalp ached. The cold seeped into her bones. She looked down at the pile of emerald silk—now just a ruined rag.
What Valentina said was true. She belonged there; Elena didn't. She fought; Elena endured. She tore and screamed and claimed. Elena stood still and let it happen. They did not live by the same rules. They did not belong in the same world.
Slowly, Elena bent down. She gathered up the torn fabric, holding it to her chest like a shield. She didn't go to the terrace. She turned and walked back into the dark hallway, clutching the ruined silk, carrying the tattered remains of the role she'd been forced to play.
She had fled the wolf's den, only to be dismantled by the hawk.
They weren't just ignoring her or taunting her anymore. They were actively trying to unmake her. To strip away every layer until nothing remained but the raw, trembling core.
She had nothing left to wear but her own skin.
Nothing left to do but endure the cold.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/2/26