Chapter Three

The Morozov house breathes.

That is the first thing I learn.

It exhales slowly through long corridors and sealed doors, through walls too thick for sound to escape but thin enough for whispers to travel. It inhales through its windows at night, swallowing secrets, swallowing fear. By morning, it has already decided who belongs and who doesn’t.

I don’t.

I feel it in the way the servants look at me. Not pity. Not respect. Calculation. As if they are waiting to see whether I will survive long enough to matter.

Viktor Morozov’s wife.

The title tastes like rust.

I am standing in the sitting room when Roman enters. I don’t hear him at first. He moves the way men who grew up in violent homes learn to move, quiet, controlled, always aware of exits.

I sense him before I see him.

The air tightens.

I don’t turn around.

“You’re blocking the window,” he says.

No greeting. No courtesy.

I glance at the glass behind me. Frost clings to the edges, white veins creeping inward. Poland in winter feels personal, like it wants to punish anyone foolish enough to hope.

“Then look elsewhere,” I reply.

Silence stretches.

I know he’s staring at my back. Measuring. Judging. Wondering how a woman my age ended up married to his father and whether I’m as rotten as he assumes.

“You’re comfortable,” he says finally.

It isn’t a question.

I turn then, slowly, meeting his gaze.

Roman Morozov does not look like his father.

Where Viktor is chaos, Roman is restraint. Dark hair pulled back. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes that don’t miss anything. He looks carved, not grown.

“I’m trapped,” I say. “Comfort has nothing to do with it.”

His mouth curves slightly. Not a smile. More like contempt acknowledging honesty.

“Funny,” he says. “Most women who marry Viktor don’t admit that part.”

Most women.

My stomach tightens.

“How many?” I ask.

His eyes flicker. Just once.

Enough.

I don’t press.

He steps closer, invading my space deliberately. It’s a challenge. A test.

“You think you’re different,” he says.

“I know I am.”

“Because you didn’t want this?” he asks coolly. “Neither did the others.”

That lands harder than he intends.

I hold my ground anyway.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you married my father.”

“As if I woke up one day and chose him.”

His jaw tightens.

“You wore white,” he says. “You smiled for cameras.”

“Because he would have punished me if I didn’t.”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

The room goes still.

Roman’s eyes sharpen, not with concern, but with something colder.

“Careful,” he says. “Accusations like that carry consequences.”

“So does silence.”

He studies me for a long moment, then steps back as if I’ve contaminated the air.

“You’re not a victim,” he says flatly. “You’re a participant.”

Before I can respond, the door slams open.

Viktor enters like a storm given flesh.

The temperature in the room drops instantly.

He is larger than life, not in height but in presence. Sixty-seven years old and still dangerous. His hair is silver, his eyes bloodshot, his movements erratic. He smells faintly of alcohol and something sharper beneath it.

“Elena,” he says, voice too loud. Too cheerful. “There you are.”

My spine stiffens.

Roman steps away immediately. Not fear. Habit.

“You didn’t join me for breakfast,” Viktor continues. “That displeases me.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” I say carefully.

“That displeases me,” he repeats, smiling without warmth.

He reaches for my arm.

I flinch before I can stop myself.

The room goes silent again.

Viktor’s smile vanishes.

“You pull away from me now?” he asks softly.

Roman’s gaze snaps to my face. Then to Viktor’s hand on my arm.

“Father,” he says, tone controlled. “There are staff—”

Viktor turns on him in an instant.

“Do not tell me how to touch my wife.”

His grip tightens. Not enough to bruise. Enough to remind.

Pain sparks up my arm.

I don’t cry out.

I won’t give him that.

Roman’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing. He never challenges Viktor directly. He learned that lesson young.

Viktor leans closer to me, his breath hot against my ear.

“You embarrass me,” he murmurs. “And when you embarrass me, Elena, I correct it.”

My heart pounds, but my voice stays steady.

“In front of your son?”

His fingers dig in harder.

“Especially in front of him.”

Roman turns away.

That hurts more than Viktor’s grip.

Satisfied, Viktor releases me abruptly. I stumble back a step, catching myself on the edge of the table.

“Get dressed,” Viktor snaps. “We’re going out.”

“Where?” I ask.

“Somewhere you’ll remember your place.”

He turns and leaves.

The door slams.

Silence crashes down.

Roman is still facing the wall.

I rub my arm slowly, feeling the heat there.

“He won’t stop,” I say quietly.

Roman exhales through his nose.

“You should have known that before you married him.”

I laugh then. A sharp, brittle sound.

“You think I had a choice.”

He turns back to me, eyes cold.

“You always have a choice.”

“Tell that to the man who raised you.”

The words are out before I can stop them.

Roman’s face hardens instantly.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Why?” I press. “Because it’s true?”

“You don’t get to use my childhood to justify your ambition.”

Ambition.

I step toward him.

“You think this was ambition?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “I think you wanted power and you didn’t care whose blood was on it.”

“Then you’re a fool,” I snap. “And blind.”

We are standing inches apart now, the air between us sharp with anger.

“For someone so intelligent,” he says softly, “you make very stupid decisions.”

“And for someone who hates his father so much,” I fire back, “you sound just like him.”

That does it.

His hand slams into the wall beside my head.

Not touching me.

Not yet.

The sound echoes like a gunshot.

My breath catches despite myself.

“You don’t know me,” he says quietly. “And you never will.”

“Good,” I whisper. “I don’t want to.”

For a moment, something dangerous flickers between us. Not desire. Not attraction.

Recognition.

Then footsteps echo in the hallway.

Roman steps back immediately, composure snapping back into place like armor.

Guards appear at the door.

“Mr. Morozov,” one says. “Your father is waiting.”

Roman nods once and leaves without looking at me again.

I am alone.

Later that night, Viktor returns drunk.

I hear him before I see him. Shouting. Glass breaking. Someone crying quietly somewhere down the hall.

When he enters my room, his mood has shifted again. Too calm. Too focused.

“You will attend the gala tomorrow,” he says.

“I don’t feel well,” I reply.

His hand lashes out, striking the table beside me. Wood cracks.

“You will,” he says softly. “You will smile. You will behave. And you will remember who owns you.”

Something inside me snaps.

“I am not your property.”

The room goes very still.

Viktor’s eyes darken.

He steps forward.

I brace myself.

But instead of hitting me, he grips my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“You forget yourself,” he whispers. “Do that again, and I won’t be gentle.”

He releases me and storms out.

I sink onto the bed, shaking.

Minutes later, the door opens again.

I look up, expecting Viktor.

It’s Roman.

His face is pale. Controlled. Furious.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

I touch my lip. I hadn’t noticed.

“It’s nothing.”

He stares at it anyway.

“You should leave,” he says abruptly.

I laugh weakly.

“And go where?”

“Anywhere,” he snaps. “Before he kills you.”

“And let him ruin someone else?” I ask. “Is that how you survive him? By stepping aside?”

His eyes blaze.

“You think you’re brave,” he says. “You’re not. You’re reckless.”

“Better than being a coward.”

His hand clenches into a fist.

Then, suddenly, footsteps again.

Viktor’s voice echoes down the hall.

Roman steps back instantly.

The door closes behind him.

I am alone again.

But this time, I know something I didn’t before.

Roman hates me.