Konstantin turns me toward the crowd with a firm hand at my back and lifts his chin in a subtle command. He raises his hand in acknowledgment.
I don’t.
I can’t.
My eyes don’t stray to the faces watching us like spectators at a ritual they’ll never speak of again. I don’t give them the satisfaction. My gaze locks onto the only person in the room who feels real.
Ellie.
She’s standing at the back now, her hands clasped tight in front of her, tears streaking down her face as two guards begin to escort her away. Not roughly. Not cruelly. Just…inevitably.
No.
My chest tightens. I want to scream her name. I want to run to her, to cling to her, to beg her not to leave me here. Panic claws up my throat as she’s guided toward the door, her head turning just once—just enough for our eyes to meet.
I shake my head at her, a silent apology. A silent promise. I don’t know which one hurts more.
The doors close behind her.
And just like that, I’m alone.
Konstantin’s hand tightens around mine, and he pulls me forward. Down the path carved between clapping hands and lowered gazes. The ring on my finger feels unbearably heavy, like a brand I can’t tear off. Every step makes it more real. Every second stretches the distance between who I was and who I’ve just become.
We reach the stairs.
Without a word, Konstantin guides me upward—not forcefully, not roughly—but with the kind of quiet expectation that leaves no room for refusal. His palm at my lower back is steady, possessive, as if my body already knows where it belongs, even if my mind is screaming otherwise.
I climb the steps beside him, my heart pounding, my thoughts spiraling.
This mansion isn’t a home.
It’s a fortress.
And I understand, with chilling clarity, that my life hasn’t ended—it’s narrowed.
Into something beautiful.
Controlled.
And utterly inescapable.
A gilded prison I don’t yet fully comprehend.
Chapter 6 – Konstantin
She’s been quiet since the wedding, and I don’t like it. I like her defiance. I like her fire. The sharp tongue, the fury, the way she looks at me like she wants to claw my eyes out. Let her fight me. Hit me. Slap me. Spit at my face. I can handle all of that.
This silence? It unsettles me.
She walks beside me down the corridor, her steps slow, measured, as if she’s moving through water. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t resist. And that bothers me far more than her rage ever did.
She looks…devastating in the wedding gown. Ivory satin clinging to her like it was designed with her body in mind. Under different circumstances, I would tell her. Under different circumstances, I might even mean it the way men are supposed to.
But nothing about this is normal. And saying it now would feel like a cruelty I don’t need to add.
We stop in front of the bedroom across from mine.
Her room.