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Tatiana Volkov—his cousin, whirlwind, troublemaker, and the only family member he didn't despise—swept into the room.
Sunlight from the hallway spilled across her as she dropped her designer bag onto the sofa. She had been gone for weeks—Milan, Paris, Dubai, she visited.
She crossed the room with a grin and threw her arms around him.
Damian stiffened instantly, pulling back before her perfume could settle on his clothes.
Her brows shot up. "Really? That's how you greet me? I know you missed me, Damian Volkov. Saying it won't kill you."
He smirked faintly, voice smooth and sharp. "I didn't even notice you were gone."
Tatiana's smile faltered. She huffed, crossing her arms. "You're insufferable."
"Good," he replied simply, turning back to his desk as though she weren't worth the effort of acknowledgment.
Tatiana rolled her eyes and flopped into the chair across from him. Her gaze immediately landed on the package.
"Did Aunt send food for you again?" she teased.
Damian didn't answer, but his silence was answer enough.
Tatiana grinned knowingly. "Isn't she the sweetest? No one spoils you like Aunt does." She leaned forward and, without hesitation, unwrapped the package. Before Damian could stop her, she popped a piece into her mouth.
"Mm!" she sighed, eyes closing in delight. "God, I missed this. No wonder you're still alive with the way she feeds you."
Damian leaned back in his chair, watching her with that unreadable steel gaze. Tatiana was reckless, nosy, and entirely too talkative—but she was also the only Volkov who didn't hunger for his throne.
That was why he tolerated her. though he'd never say it, she was his favorite.
"Eat slowly," he drawled at last, his voice a lazy warning. "You look like a thief raiding the pantry."
Tatiana shot him a glare, still chewing. "And you look like a man pretending he doesn't have feelings when he does."
***
Elena had lost count of how many hours she had been on her phone lay in her hand, screen glowing with meaningless videos that did nothing to ease the weight in her chest. She scrolled, she watched, but her tears always blurred the images until they no longer mattered.
Her aunt.
The hospital.
Every thought circled back to the only person she loved like a mother.
But she didn't have the hospital's number to call, no way to check on her, no way out. Damian's guards stood outside her door like statues, suffocating her with their silent stares. Even breathing felt like asking permission.
"I can't even live…" she whispered, throwing her phone aside.
Her stomach growled, but not out of hunger. Out of longing. For something familiar, something soft. Something hers.
Elena slipped out of her room and wandered down the endless halls until the faint smell of herbs and roasting meat led her to the kitchen. It was warm there, alive with clattering pans and the rich aroma of spices.
But the butler's sharp voice cut through the comfort.
"Miss, you're not allowed in here."
She froze, caught like a child sneaking sweets.
"Please," Elena said softly. "I just… I just want to make something myself."
The butler's brow creased, his posture stiff. "If the master finds out, I will be punished. He does not permit—"
Elena's temper cracked under her grief. "That moron controls everything, doesn't he?" she muttered under her breath, voice shaking with equal parts rage and despair. "I can't even breathe without him deciding if I should."
The butler's lips tightened, but something in her trembling voice softened his resolve.
"What is it you wish to make?" he asked finally.
Elena's eyes glistened. "Pie. Just pie. My mom and aunt used to make it for me when I was little… I just—please. He doesn't have to know."
The silence stretched, heavy. Then the butler sighed, glancing over his shoulder. "Very well. But quickly. And you clean after yourself."
Hope flickered in her heart like a candle. "Thank you."
She rolled up her sleeves, hands moving clumsily at first but finding rhythm as muscle memory took over. Flour dusted her cheeks, butter softened under her fingers, sugar melted into warmth. For the first time since she was brought here, she wasn't just a captive—she was Elena again.
The scent of baking filled the kitchen, golden and sweet, wrapping her like a memory.
When the pie finally cooled, she cut a slice, sat at the edge of the table, and ate.
But the taste—
It didn't bring joy.
It brought tears.
Her aunt's laughter in the tiny kitchen. Her mother's hands guiding hers on the rolling pin. Home. Love. Family.
She took the plate to the terrace.
Elena swallowed a sob with every bite until she couldn't anymore. She pressed her forehead to the table, shoulders shaking, whispering through her tears:
"Why did you leave me here? Why am I alone?"
***
Damian left the office earlier than usual, his thoughts tangled with the memory of Elena's soft skin, her trembling voice, the way she'd looked at him last night.
He cursed under his breath, loosening his tie as he stormed past Tatiana.
"You're leaving?" she asked, arching a brow. "That's… unusual."
He didn't bother answering. He never did. Words were wasted on everyone except his mother, his grandfather—and lately, that stubborn girl with fire in her eyes.
By the time he reached his mansion, his chest was heavy with something he didn't want to name.
The butler straightened as Damian entered.
"Where is she?" Damian's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
The butler hesitated, eyes flickering with guilt before he finally said, "In the terrace, sir."