CHAPTER FIVE

INARA’S POV

The estate was suffocatingly quiet by nightfall. The heavy oak walls, which had once felt like a sturdy fortress against the outside world, now felt like the iron bars of a cell. Every quiet corridor echoed with the ghost of whispers, every passing servant lowering their eyes as I walked by, caught between pity and the instinct to protect their own standing with my stepmother.

I could not sleep. The air in my bedroom felt thick, smelling faintly of the burnt velvet and scorched metal still settling in the cold ash of my fireplace.

I pulled a knitted black shawl around my shoulders and stepped out into the dark hallway. I didn't have a destination in mind; I simply needed to move, to feel the cold stone floor beneath my slippers to remind myself that I was still solid, still real, despite how effortlessly my family had dissolved my life hours earlier.

A soft, warm light spilled out from the glass doors of the grand conservatory at the far end of the eastern wing.

I paused at the threshold. The smell of damp soil, blooming white jasmine, and bitter chamomile floated out into the cool hallway. Standing beside the wrought-iron table, framed by towering tropical ferns, was Elizaveta. She was still wearing her soft blue gown, though the lace at her collar was unbuttoned, and she held a steaming porcelain cup between both hands, staring blindly at the dark glass of the arched windows.

She looked small and frail. It was the exact image that had driven my father to wrap his arms around her, the exact innocence that made men like Maksim want to ruin themselves just to be the one to keep her safe.

The floorboard beneath my slipper let out a quiet creak.

Elizaveta jumped, turning sharply. The porcelain cup rattled against its saucer, tea splashing over her small, pale fingers. When her eyes landed on me, the delicate color drained entirely from her face.

"Inara," she gasped out, setting the tea down with a sharp, trembling clatter on the metal table. "I... I thought you were asleep."

"Clearly," I said quietly, stepping into the warm, humid air of the glasshouse.

She backed up half a step until her shoulders hit the metal framing of an orchid display. She clutched her hands together at her waist, her lower lip trembling in that familiar, heart wrenching way that had always earned her forgiveness for every broken vase and forgotten lesson throughout our childhood.

"Please don't look at me like that," she whimpered, tears immediately welling up in her wide blue eyes, glittering under the hanging oil lanterns. "Please, Inara. I can't bear it."

"How should I look at you, Elizaveta?" I asked, my voice calm, almost conversational. I stopped five feet away from her, crossing my arms beneath my shawl. "Should I look at you like a sister? Or should I look at you like the woman who slept with my husband-l to be in his own bed while I was sitting at home reviewing our wedding list?"

Elizaveta squeezed her eyes shut, a harsh sob ripping from her throat. "I love him!" she cried out, the sound echoing softly against the damp glass panes. "I know it’s terrible! I know you hate me, and you have every right to hate me! But I couldn't stop it! It wasn't planned, Inara. He came to the house a month ago to drop off your books, and we started talking, and... and it was like a fire swept through us both. I tried to pull away! I swear to you on our mother's memory, I tried!"

"Do not speak of my mother," I said, the words falling like sharp blocks of ice between us.

Elizaveta flinched violently, covering her mouth with her hand.

"I love him," she repeated, her voice muffled behind her fingers, desperate, pleading for me to understand a passion she deemed far greater than my quiet, steady affection. "I never wanted to steal him from you. I swear Inara, I never wanted to take your happiness!"

I stood there, watching her weep. There was no anger in my chest only a profound, hollow clarity. I looked at my younger sister and saw, for the very first time, the absolute emptiness beneath her sweet demeanor. She did not want Maksim because he was her grand love; she wanted him because he was mine. He was the one piece of the world that belonged exclusively to the eldest daughter, the one shiny trinket her mother could not buy for her at the market.

"You didn't steal him, Elizaveta," I said softly.

She blinked through her wet lashes, taking a breathless, tentative step forward. "What?"

"You didn't steal him," I repeated, locking my eyes onto hers until she was forced to stand still under my gaze. "A thief takes something by force against the owner's will. Maksim was not stolen. He gave himself to you willingly. He walked into your trap, opened his arms, and threw away five years of promises for a few weeks in the dark."

"Inara—

"He gave himself to you," I continued, stepping closer until I could smell the sweet chamomile on her breath. "And you opened your lap to take him. Do not insult me by pretending you are a victim of fate. You made a choice. He made a choice."

Elizaveta’s breath hitched. She reached out, her small, soft fingers brushing against the edge of my woolen shawl. "Can you... can you ever forgive me? We're sisters, Inara. We share blood. We live under the same roof. Please, don't break our family over this."

I looked down at her fingers touching my clothes. Slowly, I raised my hand and brushed her arm away.

"I hope he makes you happy, Elizaveta," I said, my tone completely flat, devoid of warmth. "I hope his touch brings you everything you dreamed of when you lay beneath him in his bed. I hope his promises sound sweet when he whispers them to you on your wedding night."

Elizaveta swallowed hard, a fresh wave of tears spilling over her flushed cheeks. "Inara..."

"But do not ask for my forgiveness," I whispered, leaning down so my eyes were level with hers. "And do not ever mistake my quietness for forgetfulness. You traded your sister for a man who lies to the women he claims to love. And I will never, for as long as I draw breath, trust you again."

I didn't wait for her reply.

I turned and walked away, stepping back into the dark, cold corridor of the estate. Behind me, the muffled sound of her weeping faded into the distance, but as I walked toward my empty room, I knew the truth.

She had won the husband. She had won our father’s sympathy. She had won the bright, shiny future meant for the elder daughter. But as I closed my bedroom door and locked myself in the cold dark, I felt the final thread of my childhood snap cleanly in two.

I was completely, entirely alone in this house. And no one was ever coming to defend me.