Isolation was Dmitri’s first weapon.
He kept me confined to opulent rooms for days at a time, surrounded by luxury that mocked me with its uselessness.
Silk sheets I cried into. Chandeliers that glittered while I stared at the ceiling, counting cracks to keep from screaming.
Servants came and went, polite but distant, loyal to him—not me.
I was never struck. Dmitri didn’t need violence to shatter me.
His punishments were precise.
He starved me of affection, of touch, of acknowledgment—then appeared suddenly, unpredictably, just to remind me he was still in control.
His words were weapons, delivered deliberately.
“You hurt me once, Penelope,” he would murmur during our rare confrontations, trapping me against the wall with nothingbut the weight of his body, his breath scorching my ear. “And for that, you will pay for every breath you take in my house.”
I would shake, fury and fear tangling in my chest.
He’d continue cruelly, "You'll pay for every tear I shed because of you.”
There was no reasoning with him. No pleading, no explanation could erase the crimes he imagined I had committed.
And then—the cruelty escalated.
While Dmitri was away on what he called “business”—months-long absences meant to remind me how easily he could erase me from his life—someone else saw an opening.
My ex—Antonio.
A man from my past in New York, violent in subtle ways.
He orchestrated a kidnapping.
I barely had time to scream before he struck—fists pounding me until darkness claimed me.
When I awoke, I was in Rome, trapped inside his father’s estate.
He had underestimated Dmitri Volkov.
Within hours, Dmitri had me brought back to Lake Como.
That was when Dmitri discovered my pregnancy.
He wanted me to terminate it, claiming it was dangerous for my health.
I refused. That was the first time I had truly challenged him.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t strike me.
But he persisted.
Desperation forced my hand.
Giovanni—his assistant—was quiet, observant, and kinder than anyone in Dmitri’s inner circle had a right to be.
He saw the fear I lived with. The way my hands trembled. The way I clung to the smallest kindness like it might save me.
Together, we wove the lie that I had lost the baby—because lying was the only way to keep it safe.