41. Chapter 41

41

Clara

T he soft glow of the lamp in the corner is the only thing keeping our room from descending into complete darkness. It casts long shadows over the hardwood floor and the expensive, fussy crown moldings that seem to mock me with their perfect edges. The bed—king-sized, with sheets so soft they probably came from the hair of angels—feels far too big for the two of us, yet somehow, it’s still too small to contain my restless thoughts.

Pathetic. The man kidnapped us, and here I am, wondering if he’s having fun at his fancy gala with his bottle-blonde arm candy.

“She’s been after the boss for years,” Maksim had said, smirking like he knew exactly how much that would piss me off.

Well, congratulations, asshole. Mission accomplished.

I turn my head sharply toward the clock on the bedside table, the small motion making my hair catch on my bare shoulder. Midnight. Of course.

Fucking shit .

My jaw tightens as I grind my teeth against the frustration threatening to bubble over. He’s still not back. He probably isn’t coming back anytime soon. My nails dig into the edge of the bathrobe belt as I take a slow, deliberate breath. In. Out. Calm.

A soft, sleepy giggle bubbles out next to me— “Hehehe,” light and breathy, the unmistakable sound of a child laughing in his dreams.

I freeze for a second, turning my head to look down at Elijah. He’s curled up on his side, just inches away, one tiny hand still clutching his battered soft toy. A big, wide smile spreads across his face, so pure and happy it almost makes me forget the storm raging in my chest.

I scoff quietly, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek. His skin is impossibly soft, baby powder warm, and it makes me want to wrap him in my arms and shield him from everything. Instead, I gently adjust the Pokémon toy in his hand to make sure it stays close to him.

“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” I murmur under my breath.

Carefully, I ease back onto my side of the bed, sinking into the impossibly soft mattress.

Step one: Close your eyes.

Step two: Don’t think about him.

Step three: Sleep. Easy. Logical. Just shut it all down like a computer.

My eyelids flutter shut.

Nothing.

I crack one eye open. Okay, step one isn’t going so well. My gaze flickers toward the lamp, the soft light catching on the satin of my nightgown.

Ugh. The damn nightgown .

I snort softly to myself, shaking my head.

What kind of idiot buys this? Oh, wait, me. The idiot in question.

It had seemed like such a great idea at the Chanel store. A little retail therapy to shove in Leonid’s face, grabbing every tiny, impractical piece I could find just to piss him off. But now? This white satin monstrosity is my penance. A size too small, it clings to me like shrink wrap, the hem barely clearing the curve of my ass. If I move wrong, I’ll give the whole room a peep show.

I pull the bathrobe tighter around me, but not before running my fingers over the fabric again, the silk cool and smooth against my skin. Like his hands would be, probably. Those big, warm palms sliding over the satin, bunching it up as he—

Jesus Christ, Clara, get it together.

This is the same man who’s probably letting Fiona drape herself all over him right now.

The same man who’s keeping us here against our will. The same infuriating, arrogant, impossibly sexy —

Stop. It.

I flop back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

Step one: Close your eyes.

Step two: Don’t think about him.

Step three— Fuck, coffee. Did I have coffee? I didn’t have coffee. Why does it feel like I had coffee?

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, groaning softly. Sleep isn’t happening, and I know why. The knot in my stomach won’t go away until I get answers. This isn’t about petty grudges or satin nightgowns. It’s about Elijah. It’s about me.

Before I know it, I’m on my feet. The cool floor beneath my bare toes sends a small shiver up my spine, but I ignore it. I glance at the closet as I tie the robe tighter, half-tempted to throw on something more appropriate. But no. Let him see me like this if it bothers him. He deserves a little discomfort.

I’ll just talk to him. That’s all.

Just a conversation .

A polite, calm inquiry about when exactly he plans to let us out of this place .

Totally reasonable. Logical .

Nothing to do with the way my chest tightens at the thought of facing him or the way his voice lingers in my head like an unwelcome guest.

Yeah. Totally logical.

I step toward the door, my pulse quickening despite my best efforts to keep it steady. Whatever happens next, I’ll get my answers.

One way or another.

The house is so quiet it feels like I’m walking into the pages of a ghost story. My pulse thrums in my ears, a metronome counting down to… What? Answers? Or more questions?

The hallway stretches in front of me, lit by soft, recessed lights along the ceiling. Plush carpet muffles my steps, but my robe swishes faintly around my thighs. I glance toward the elevator at the end of the hall, its doors gleaming like it belongs in some five-star hotel instead of Leonid’s fortress of secrets.

I stop at the door across from mine.

Locked doors were a theme earlier this week, but this one opens when I twist the handle. The hinge gives a faint creak, and I freeze, holding my breath as though expecting someone to materialize from thin air.

Nothing. Just silence.

I step inside and pause, blinking at the sight in front of me.

A grand piano sits in the center of the room, black and polished to a mirror-like sheen. The top is propped open, revealing strings and hammers that catch the dim light like cobwebs spun from gold. A low chandelier hangs above it, simple but elegant, its crystals reflecting tiny rainbows onto the walls.

I approach slowly, the air suddenly feeling thicker, like stepping into another time. My gaze drifts to the far wall, where pictures hang in neat rows, their black frames stark against the creamy white paint. The faces in them make me stop short.

Little Leonid.

My chest tightens as I take it in—photo after photo of him as a boy, standing stiffly next to a man with a sharp jawline and a stare like stone. Andrei Kuznetsov . The two of them stand beside a massive fish, its tail almost grazing the ground, the boy’s hands gripping a fishing rod too big for him. Another photo shows them in the woods, Leonid clutching a rifle that looks absurd against his small frame, the man behind him correcting his stance. In another, Leonid is shirtless in a boxing ring, his little fists raised and his mouth pressed into a grim line, like smiling wasn’t part of the lesson.

And then it hits me.

Elijah looks eerily like Leonid did as a boy.

My breath catches as I glance between the pictures; the resemblance is undeniable. The same solemn eyes, the same high cheekbones and stubborn set to the jaw, even the wild hair that refuses to behave. It’s as if I’m staring at my son in another life, one that’s harder, colder, filled with expectations that weigh heavy enough to steal a childhood.

The thought twists something deep in my chest. Elijah’s laugh, his warmth, his joy—all the things that make him who he is—would they survive in a life like Leonid’s? The idea of Elijah standing stiffly in these photos, expressionless, a stranger to happiness, makes my stomach churn.

My fingers brush the edge of one frame, lingering on the boxing ring photo. Leonid can’t be more than 8 or 9; he doesn’t look like a boy learning to fight for fun. He looks like someone fighting because he has to.

There’s something missing in every single one of them .

Joy.

My heart sinks. He looks so small, so serious, as if happiness wasn’t something he was allowed to have.

I move toward a table tucked into the corner, its surface cluttered with scattered sheet music and a single photo in a gold frame. The sight of it stops me cold.

The woman in the picture is stunning, her smile radiant and soft all at once. Her hands rest protectively on her very pregnant belly, and her eyes—Leonid’s eyes—seem to sparkle even through the photograph.

I reach out and pick up the frame, my fingers trembling slightly as I take it in. Leonid’s mom, opposite to Andrei Kuznetsov, the warmth in her expression feels like it doesn’t belong in this house. I place the photo back carefully, almost afraid of disturbing the moment frozen within it.

Turning back to the piano, I lift the fallboard and run my fingers lightly over the keys. They’re worn, slightly yellowed, and faint scuffs mar the polished finish. It isn’t the expensive showpiece I expected—it’s old, well-loved, the kind of instrument that carries stories in its cracks and scratches.

I press a single key. A soft, tentative ding fills the room. The sound is delicate, almost hesitant, as if waiting to be judged.

Another key.

Ding.

The notes stir something inside me, a memory I haven’t thought about in years. Jake. His hands on the keys, his lopsided grin as he played the same silly song over and over just to make me laugh.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little bug,” he’d sing, dragging out the notes in the worst falsetto imaginable. His voice would crack on purpose as he added ridiculous lines, “Climbed a tree and squashed a slug,” before shooting me a mischievous look.

I’d collapse into giggles every single time, my cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

“You’re awful,” I’d manage between fits of laughter, but he’d just keep going, making the lyrics worse and worse until neither of us could breathe.

I press another key, softer this time, but the weight in my chest grows heavier. My vision blurs, and before I can stop myself, a tear slips down my cheek, landing on the edge of the piano with a soft splatter.

“Can’t sleep?”

The voice is low, deep, and it sends a jolt through me like a livewire.

I whip around, and there he is, standing in the doorway like he owns the universe. Because he does.

Leonid Kuznetsov in a sharp black suit that looks painted on, the top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to hint at the hard lines of his chest. His hair is slightly mussed like he’s run his fingers through it one too many times tonight, and his dark eyes burn as they sweep over me.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is quieter now but no less intense, like every word is a hook meant to drag me closer.

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. My pulse quickens, and the room suddenly feels too small, too hot.