CHAPTER THREE

INARA’S POV

The carriage ride back to my father’s estate was a blur of dark trees and rain-slicked cobblestones. My body was numb, but my heart hammered violently against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. When the carriage finally ground to a halt before the massive stone portico of the main house, I didn't wait for the footman to open the door. I threw it open myself and marched up the grand steps, my heavy woolen cloak trailing wetly behind me.

I kicked open the heavy double doors of my father’s study without knocking.

Viktor Volkov sat behind his grand mahogany desk, illuminated by the warm light of two brass oil lamps. He was reviewing ledger books, a glass of dark amber spirits resting near his right hand. He looked up, his thick brows furrowing in immediate annoyance at the intrusion.

"Inara?" he demanded, setting his pen down. "What is the meaning of this unseemly noise? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"It’s over," I gasped out, my voice ragged, fighting the bitter lump rising in my throat. I stood in the center of the room, my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides. "The engagement. It’s over. I just came from Maksim’s townhouse."

My father didn't leap up in outrage. He didn't slam his glass onto the desk or demand to know what Maksim had done to insult his house. Instead, he simply leaned back in his leather chair, his dark eyes narrowing into sharp, calculating slits.

"What are you talking about?" he asked coldly.

"I found him with Elizaveta," I said, the words tasting like copper on my tongue. "In his bed. Together."

I waited for the eruption. I waited for him to call for his horses, to summon his guard, to curse Maksim’s name for dishonoring his eldest daughter on the eve of her wedding. I waited for the protective father I had spent my entire youth praying to see.

Instead, my father let out a slow, heavy sigh. He ran a hand over his tired face, looking at me not with sympathy, but with profound, irritating exhaustion.

"And what did you do, Inara?" he asked softly.

I froze, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp, painful hiss. "What?"

"What did you do to make him turn to her?" my father clarified, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Maksim is a noble man from a good family. A man does not stray from his betrothed two weeks before the wedding unless he is seeking something he cannot find at home. You have always been stubborn, Inara. Proud. Cold. Did you push him away?"

The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I stared at him, unable to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. "He was in bed with my sister, Father! With *Elizaveta*! He betrayed me, she betrayed me, and you are asking what *I* did wrong?"

Before he could answer, the study doors burst open again.

Elizaveta stumbled into the room, her eyes swollen and red from crying, her blonde hair hastily tied back in a messy knot. My stepmother, Sofia, was right behind her, wrapping a velvet shawl around the girl’s trembling shoulders.

"Father!" Elizaveta wailed, collapsing to her knees right beside his desk, burying her tear-stained face in her hands. "Father, please! I'm so sorry! I never meant for this to happen! I tried to stay away from him, I swear I did, but... but we couldn't help it! I love him, Father! I love him so much!"

Sofia dropped to her knees beside her daughter, pulling Elizaveta into a fierce, protective embrace while glaring up at me as if I were a stranger who had broken into their home. "Look at her, Viktor! She is hyperventilating! The child is devastated!"

My father immediately rose from his chair. He stepped around his massive desk, completely ignoring my presence, and knelt down beside Elizaveta. He gathered my half-sister into his arms, resting his large hand gently against the back of her head, murmuring soft, comforting words into her hair.

"Hush, little one," Viktor murmured, his voice laced with a gentle tenderness he had never once offered me in all the years since my mother died. "It’s alright. Shh, dry your tears. Nobody is going to harm you."

I stood anchored to the rug, watching the three of them form a tight, impenetrable wall of familial comfort. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow, cutting deeper than Maksim’s betrayal ever could: if forced to choose between us, my father would always step in front of Elizaveta. She was the delicate flower that needed protecting; I was merely the iron rod expected to hold up the house without complaining.

My father looked up at me over Elizaveta's trembling shoulder. His golden-brown eyes, so similar to my own, were hard and unyielding.

"You will not cause a scene over this, Inara," he ordered sternly. "Elizaveta’s heart is fragile. She acted out of youthful emotion, nothing more. You are the elder sister. You need to forgive her, and we will handle the arrangements quietly."

I looked down at Elizaveta, who peeked at me through her pale fingers, her face flushed, safe and warm in our father's arms.

"No," I whispered, my voice cold as winter frost as I backed toward the door. "I will not."