NICOLE

My cheeks were still burning from the humiliation of Kirill’s assessment.

The words were aimed not just at me, but at Sergey. I didn't need to be told that his insult was about Pavel, seeing how he clenched his fists.

The remainder of the engagement party was a blur of forced smiles and strained conversation. The Russian elite offered empty, polite congratulations, but their eyes were always darting back to Kirill, the man whose contempt for me was now public knowledge. It was embarrassing.

My father and Hailey were preparing to leave. I didn't want to talk to them or say anything parting words to them since we weren't close and Hailey hated me with every fibre of her being.

Hailey approached me in a side parlor, away from the immediate gaze of the Volkonskys. She didn't look triumphant; she looked relieved.

“Don’t disgrace us, Nicole,” she whispered, her voice tight with venom. “Your usefulness is heavily dependent on your silence and compliance. You are no longer under the Baker family's protection, you belong to him now. If you screw this up, the losses will be massive, and you will be the one they discard.”

My father stepped closer, avoiding my eyes. He placed a hand on my shoulder, an awkward, stiff gesture that felt more like a final pat down before an execution.

“This is good for the family, Nic. You understand, don’t you? You're giving us the leverage we need.” He offered a weak smile, trying to sell me on my own sacrifice.

“You sold me, Father,” I stated, my voice flat, holding back the burning tears that would only give her the satisfaction. “Just like Hailey said, I’m giving back what I took. Enjoy the profit.”

He flinched, but quickly masked it with a sigh of weary finality.

I watched them go—my father and stepmother, the last vestiges of my old life—disappearing into the night, relieved to be free of the man who looked like a psychopath and the daughter who reminded them of shame.

“Miss Nicole, please follow me,” a man on black approached me and led me outside to the car. I spotted Ivan inside and knew it was time to leave. The chauffeur opened the door for me and I got in beside Ivan who didn't bother to look at me.

The drive to his home was quiet, awkwardly so and it felt like I was walking on thin ice. After about an hour, we got to the massive iron gates of his manor.

“We're here, sir,” the chauffeur announced as he pulled up into the driveway.

When the car stopped, a team of staff instantly materialized. They moved with a quick, silent efficiency that suggested they were less concerned with service and more with avoiding the displeasure of their master. Kirill opened his door and stepped out without a word, leaving me to scramble for my own escape. He didn't look back; he simply strode toward the main entrance.

“How could he just leave me here?” I mumbled as I go my out too. I hurried to follow, clutching my small clutch bag, feeling clumsy as I chased after him. I was property now, and property followed its master.

The interior was magnificent and utterly oppressive. The silence swallowed the sound of my heels on the polished stone floor. We moved through a vast entry hall, past sweeping staircases and shadowy corridors. He walked so fast I had to jog to keep up, already breathing slightly hard from the effort.

A stiff, dark-clad housekeeper, whose face was a mask of professional neutrality, appeared from the shadows and pointed me toward an elevator. Kirill entered, and I slid in beside him. The ride up was silent, punctuated only by the faint click of the mechanism. He didn’t spare me a single glance despite being right beside him.

The elevator opened into a private wing. Kirill didn't hesitate, walking down a long, plushly carpeted corridor toward a massive, dark wood double door—the master suite.

A wife, even a despised one, was expected to sleep in the marital chambers. To linger in the hall would be disrespectful, and disrespect was a fast track to ruin in this household or so I thought.

He pushed the door open. The room was the size of my old New York apartment, but infinitely more luxurious. It was dominated by a huge, imposing king-sized bed draped in heavy dark velvet. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and the windows overlooked the vast grounds.

Kirill shirked off his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair with a careless gesture. He walked to a chest of drawers and began to unbutton the first two buttons of his collar.

“What do you think you're doing standing there?” He finally acknowledged my presence. Did he want me to help him take off his clothes or… my cheeks turned a soft pink. What was I doing?

“Do you want me to help you take off your shirt?” I asked, wanting to be sure of what he wanted.

“Don't tell me your ears aren't functional too?” He groaned. “Why are you in my room?” He looked over his shoulder, his eyes filled with disgust and his voice flat.

The question caught me completely off guard. My heart seized up in my chest. I suddenly felt the utter stupidity of my assumption, but I couldn't backtrack. My voice was barely a breath.

“I… I thought…” I hated how small and squeaky I sounded. “I thought we were meant to share the same room.”

He let out a short, harsh sound—half scoff, half groan—running a hand over his pale blonde hair. He turned to face me fully, his expression not one I wanted to see right now.

“The fuck?” He raised an eyebrow, his contempt so fierce it made my skin prickle. "Not only are you an illegitimate child, you’re also dumb. What did I expect when Father was the one who came up with this stupid idea?”

He mumbled the last part more to himself than me, sounding genuinely disgusted with the very nature of the arrangement. The words illegitimate and dumb were delivered as a single, damning indictment. I was not just morally flawed by my birth, but mentally inept—a truly poor investment for a man like him. I thought he just didn't fancy me but this might just be hate if I'm being honest with myself.

I felt the burning shame rush over me. My instincts screaming at me to avoid his anger, I lowered my head, staring at the thick pile of the carpet.

“I’m s-sorry if I offended you,” I stammered, focusing on controlling the overwhelming urge to dissolve into tears.

“Get out if you're done,” he snapped. His patience was completely exhausted.

I didn't need to be told twice. I bolted from the room, pulling the door shut behind me with a quiet click that felt deafening in the hallway silence. I leaned against the polished wood of the door, trembling, trying to regain control of my breath.

An elderly housekeeper was waiting, a silent, knowing witness to my humiliation.

“Follow me,” she instructed and I did. She directed me in the opposite direction towards a door across the hall. It was a secondary guest suite, perfectly luxurious—it had its own small sitting area and a spacious bathroom—yet utterly impersonal. It was a room for an unexpected guest, or perhaps an unwanted mistress.

"This will be your room, Ms. Baker," she stated, her voice neutral, allowing no trace of judgment. "Kirill prefers his privacy. We will leave you for the night."

She was about to leave before she stopped in her tracks.

“I'm Mrs. Polaine, the head maid here and I've been looking after Kirill since he was born,” she introduced herself.

“I-I’m Nicole Baker,” I introduced myself, offering a smile.

“Yes, I know who you are,” Mrs. Polaine said softly, her eyes studying me with an almost painful sympathy. “He doesn’t mean to be cruel, so don't take what he does to heart.”

Perhaps she was talking about another Kirill because this one meant every act of cruelty he directed at me but still, I appreciated her kindness so I just offered a smile before she walked out, leaving me alone.

I walked into the room, collapsing onto the velvet chaise lounge near the window. I had barely made it through the first night, I could only imagine if I'd survive tomorrow.