Page 31 of Gilded Shackles
Nikolai moves through this massive house like a ghost, materializing only to grunt a few syllables at his staff before disappearing again. The few times I've managed to corner him in a hallway or intercept him in the kitchen, he looks at me like I'm a tax form he's been avoiding. His responses come in single-serving packages: "Fine." "Later." "Ask Pavel."
I'm starting to think that one night in the hotel was some kind of personality transplant. The man who touched me like I was made of live wires has been replaced by a cardboard cutout with a permanent scowl.
On the fourth night, unable to sleep, I kick off the sheets and decide I have to do something about my situation.
Nikolai hasn't raised his voice once. He hasn't even been cruel. That might have been easier. Instead, he's simply absent. In the same room, but not with me. He reads documents. Drinks black coffee. And never, ever looks too long in my direction.
I think I'd rather be screamed at.
Sir Isaac stretches beside me, utterly unconcerned with my existential crisis.
Must be nice.
"At least Pasha likes me," I tell the cat, who blinks slowly. Unimpressed.
That's the one bright spot in this bizarre situation. Nikolai's son has appointed himself my unofficial tour guide. He showed me the lake, the frog ponds, the hidden path to the boathouse. He's the only human in this house who talks to me like I'm a real person.
That's it. I'm done.
I walk into the great room, where I know Nikolai likes to read into the night. The one with the massive hearth and the kind of furniture that should come with royal titles.
I find him slouched in a large, winged leather chair. Collar open. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, the ink on his forearms catching firelight. Wrist loose against the armrest. He looks like sin hand-tailored itself into a man and decided to read about tax law.
And he doesn't look at me.
Not even a flicker.
That's when the rage hardens into something cold and lethal in my chest.
"I'm leaving," I say.
He glances up. His face shifts immediately from neutral to wary, like I'm a bomb that just appeared in his living room.
"I'm not asking."
That gets him. He closes the book with a slam. "You're not a prisoner," he says. Calm.
I let out a laugh so sarcastic it sounds cruel even to my own ears. "Fantastic. Then open the main gates."
He doesn't blink. "I didn't say I'd do that."
My jaw clenches. "You haven't spoken a full sentence to me in four days. You've made it abundantly clear you don't want me here. So I'm solving that problem for both of us."
His jaw tightens. "I've been busy."
I cross my arms. "Look, I get it. This whole situation is a nightmare. You don't want me here. I don't want to be here drowning in your silence. We both win if you let me go."
He exhales. "It's not my choice to keep you, Elle."
"Great. Even better. Then release me."
"I said it's not my choice. Or did you forget the part where your mother and my uncle arranged this?"
"So make it your choice."
There's a slow pause. One of those lethal Nikolai pauses that feel loaded. A bomb with no beeping.
I double down.
