His eyes narrow. For a moment, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses faded away. There is only Luchenko's hulking presence before me, his scarred face inches from mine.
When he smiles, it's the expression of a predator spotting vulnerable prey. "Such spirit. I enjoy taming you. In fact, I find it one of my most satisfying pastimes."
Revulsion roils in my stomach, and I force myself not to recoil.
I will not let him see my fear.
With effort, I extract myself from his bruising grip. "If you'll excuse me, I need some air."
I don't wait for his response before turning on my heel. The sound of my footsteps clicking across the marble floor matches the rapid pounding of my heart.
These exquisite surroundings have become a death trap. And I will free myself from it, no matter the cost.
I stride out onto the balcony, the night air raising goosebumps on my bare arms.
Behind me, the muted sounds of the gala continue, a constant reminder of the prison I've found myself trapped in.
Out here, away from Luchenko's smothering presence, I can finally breathe.
But each inhale is tinged with fear.
Fear for myself, and the future that lies ahead for me and my daughter. Luchenko's daughter.
Luchenko's thinly veiled threats echo in my mind.
"Your aesthetic appearance has little to do with my plans for you and our daughter's futures. Beauty fades with time, and that's what initially attracted me to you, I'll admit, but it's not why I want you now. I have other uses planned for you."
His words chill my veins, goosebumps breaking out all over my arms and chest.
The thought of Yara at Luchenko's mercy makes my blood run cold. I have to find a way out of this, for both of us. But how?
I stare out at the city lights twinkling below me. We're so high up, untouchable in Luchenko's ivory tower. Just one of the many ways he keeps me under his control.
The sound of approaching footsteps makes me stiffen.
I don't need to turn around to know it's him. Luchenko moves with the self-assured gait of a man accustomed to dominating any space he enters.
When he speaks, his voice is deceptively gentle. "The night air hasn't chilled you, I hope?"
His solicitude is a lie. I know the monster that lurks beneath his charming façade.
"I'm fine," I say tightly. "I'd like to be alone."
Ignoring my words, he comes closer, crowding me against the balcony railing.
I force myself not to shrink away.
"So spirited," he murmurs. "I admire that in you, meelaya. But you forget your place."
His hand settles on my lower back in a mockery of intimacy, the gesture that young women are taught mean a man is taking care of us, guiding us as if we need a man to help us safely navigate the precarious balance of life. To steer us from room to room.
To keep us out of trouble and away from the threat of hysteria and other 'womanly issues'.
Disgust rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.
"And what place is that?" I challenge.
Luchenko's answering smile is slow, possessive. "At my side, as my devoted wife. In my home. In my bed." His hand slides lower in emphasis. "Precisely where you belong."