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SIXTY-FOUR: Working Together
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2026-07-05 22:23:06
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Her Neglected Scars SIXTY-SEVEN: The Board
“What is a Bennington’s daughter doing in this room, Mr. Morozov?”The question lands like a physical blow, drawing twenty pairs of cold, hardened eyes straight toward me.The older board member with the jagged white scar splitting his left eyebrow leans forward, his palm pressed hard against the mahogany table, knuckles stark white.My lungs contract, a familiar spark of panic flaring in my chest, but twelve years of having my spine corrected by my father’s cane ensure my shoulders don’t drop a single millimeter.I remain perfectly upright, chin tilted at the precise angle of a woman who belongs exactly where she stands.Konstantin’s frame shifts beside me.I feel the dangerous drop in temperature the second his jaw tightens, his golden eyes narrowing as he prepares to tear the older man to pieces.But I don’t let him.If I let my husband fight this battle, I remain the fragile spy princess they all think I am.“I am here,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence with crisp clari
Her Neglected Scars SIXTY-SIX: A Bennington Princess
The rhythmic throbbing in my left cheek keeps time with my steps as I smooth down my dress.I stop in front of a mirror in the corridor, tilting my face toward the weak winter light.The skin is already blooming violet—a canvas of Sofia’s resentment.My fingers don’t tremble as I pull a compact from my pocket.Twelve years under Theodore Bennington’s roof teach you one skill above all: how to paint over the cracks.I dab concealer over the swelling, blending until my skin looks porcelain.I force my lips to curve upward.The reflection smiles back—hollow, flawless, dead behind the eyes.Good.I pocket the compact, roll my shoulders back, and push open the doors of the dining room.The scent of rye bread, smoked salmon, and black tea hits me first.A fireplace crackles at one end of the room.At the long table, Konstantin sits at the head, in a charcoal-grey suit, cutting into his food with quiet precision.To his right sits Irina in ivory cashmere.Six-year-old Leonid is perched on a
Her Neglected Scars SIXTY-FIVE: Just Got Lethal
“Who’s there?” Irina’s voice slices through the quiet of the morning corridor, sharp and completely stripped of her usual honeyed sweetness.I don’t wait to see if she catches me.I pivot on my bare heels and slip into the nearest empty guest suite.I shut the door with agonizing slowness, letting the latch click into place without a sound.My lungs burn.Irina.The sweet, tragedy-stricken cousin who brings me lemon jam and smiles softly when Konstantin ignores me.She isn’t just an obstacle in this house; she is a snake wearing silk, sleeping in the same bed as the Benningtons.I stumble toward the en-suite bathroom, my knees slamming against the tiled floor.I barely manage to grip the porcelain rim before my stomach violently rebels.I flush the toilet, my body shaking so hard my teeth chatter.I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lean my forehead against the cold porcelain.I drag myself up, rinse my mouth, and force my reflection to smooth out.Ghost-pale. Dark hair tangl
Her Neglected Scars SIXTY-FOUR: Working Together
“Do you want to have them?”My hand freezes on Leonid’s chest.The air in my lungs turns to ash.I look back up, meeting Konstantin’s gaze, finding nothing but absolute, penetrating seriousness in those crimson depths.He isn’t playing anymore.Kids.The word feels foreign, completely terrifying.My mind immediately flashes to the cold, blood-soaked basement in the Bennington manor.I see Theodore’s indifferent, pale eyes as he hands me a list of targets.I see Caesar’s cruel, possessive smile as he raises the leather crop.I think of my mother, locked away in some dark room, surviving on scraps, her mind slowly fracturing into pieces because of the bloodline we carry.How could someone like me—a weapon, a piece of meat traded for a peace treaty—ever bring a child into a world this black?What kind of mother would I be when I don’t even know how to look at my own body without feeling disgust?I force the panic down, burying it deep into the pit of my stomach where I keep all my other
Her Neglected Scars SIXTY-THREE: Kids
“To tell you the truth . . .” I whisper, my voice cracking.“I . . . I . . .”The confession scrapes against the back of my throat.I can feel the hard rim of the marble counter biting into the small of my back, pinning me beneath the immense weight of Konstantin’s shadow.His grip on my wrist doesn’t loosen; it remains a heavy, burning iron cuff, forcing my blood-smeared palm into the harsh moonlight spilling through the window.His jaw is set so hard that a sharp cord of muscle twitches beneath his tanned skin.Those amber eyes don’t just look at me—they dismantle me, gear by gear, looking for the rot my father planted inside my ribs.I am so tired.Every single bone in my body feels ground to dust after years of standing straight, of smiling through the dark while Caesar took his pleasure in making me bleed.The urge to just drop the mask, to let the ugly, jagged reality spill onto the clean tiles between us, is a physical ache in my chest.“Say it, Evangeline,” he says.His free h
Her Neglected Scars SIXTY-TWO: Tell Me
Konstantin doesn’t move immediately.He just stands there in the dissipating fog of the bathroom doorway, the snow-white towel slung incredibly low on his hips.The scent of clean soap and expensive cedar rolls out with the heat, wrapping around my freezing frame.I’m still wearing my heavy wool coat, clutching it like a shield, but against a man who looks like he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat, it feels entirely useless.His amber eyes track down my body, stopping instantly at my feet.I try to shift, to hide the slight limp I’ve been nursing since the crossing, but he notices.He always notices.“Sit,” he commands, his voice flat and unyielding.Twelve years of Bennington conditioning kick in before I can even process the order.My shoulders drop into a perfect, fluid line.A polite, completely empty smile glues itself to my lips.“I’m perfectly fine, Konstantin. Just a bit tired from the journey.”“I didn’t ask how you felt. I told you to sit.”He turns back into th
Her Neglected Scars THIRTY-NINE: Galina, The Seamstress
The thing about almost-things is that they’re worse than nothing.Nothing, you can handle. Nothing is familiar. Nothing is just Tuesday in the Morozov estate, same as every other Tuesday—cold floors, colder people, and me pretending I don’t notice either. But almost-things? Almost-things leave a r
Her Neglected Scars THREE: Poisoned Gazes
Whip burns and brotherly love: because one form of torture just isn’t enough. The room was heavy with unspoken tension as my brother gently applied the salve on the wounds on my back, his touch lingering a bit too long.I asked for the maids, but I guess they, too, were far too afraid to go agains
Her Neglected Scars TWO: To Punish the Brave One
When you dig your own grave, you better be ready to lie in it, but damn, this is one deep hole.Bloody pupils that look and feel like it’s seen murderous things penetrated right through the small slats of the closet. He doesn’t move, nor does he stray his eyes away from mine. Instead, his lips, ca
Her Neglected Scars ONE: Marrying To My Doom
I’m getting married to Konstantin Morozov, the merciless billionaire crowned as the bloodthirsty King in all of Russia, or in other words, my life is going to end today.A stark difference to the dark cell I thought it would be ending, but instead it’s here—in this beautiful church adorned with flo
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