Tatiana dove into racks of dresses, trying on gown after gown.
The manager brought out rare limited-edition shoes, necklaces worth thousands, and handbags with waiting lists of over a year.
Tatiana didn't hesitate—every time Elena opened her mouth to say, that's enough, Tatiana was already signing for another item.
"Tia, stop!" Elena whispered urgently, tugging at her sleeve. "Do you even know how much that costs?"
"Do I care?" Tatiana replied, blowing a kiss at her reflection in the mirror.
When the final bill came, Elena's face turned pale. Sweat trickled down her spine as the numbers rolled across the tablet screen—an obscene amount.
She whispered, "Oh my god, Damian will kill me."
Tatiana only giggled. "Please. He won't even blink. This is pocket change for him."
Elena groaned but couldn't hide the sparkle in her eyes as she admired herself in a soft silk dress.
For one afternoon, she allowed herself to feel like the world belonged to her too.
After the boutique, they were escorted to a Michelin-starred restaurant across the plaza.
The chandeliers glittered like stars, the waiters in tuxedos bowed as they passed, and dishes Elena couldn't even pronounce were laid in front of them.
They sipped champagne, shared desserts, and gossiped until the sun dipped low.
Elena felt freer than she had in weeks—no Damian's cold stares, no suffocating walls of the mansion, just her and Tatiana laughing over crème brûlée like girlfriends.
Then they went back to Damian's mansion.
***
Damian sat in the back of his armored car, He had just finished a meeting with one of his underground contacts—discussing shipments, weapons routes, and payments that needed to be moved without a trace.
"Sir," his PA said carefully, from the seat opposite him. "You need to see this."
Damian lifted his eyes, irritation flashing. The man swallowed, sliding a tablet toward him. "It's about Miss Cruz."
The name froze him. Slowly, Damian took the tablet.
The video played. Isabel Romanov's voice filled the car: " I'll buy everything she touched!'
Damian's jaw tightened, the veins in his hand bulging as he gripped the tablet.
The next clip showed Elena's face, her calling Isabel cheap and Tatiana chuckling at Elena's words.
His Elena, surrounded by flashing cameras, her name already spilling out in whispers across the city.
For a moment, everything inside him went still. Then fury surged through his veins like fire.
Isabel. Near Elena.
The screen dimmed as the video ended, but Damian was already moving. He slammed the tablet shut, his voice like ice.
"Turn the car around. Now."
"Yes, sir," the driver stammered.
His PA swallowed, watching the storm in his boss's eyes. Damian Volkov wasn't just angry—he was lethal.
Minutes later,
The door to Elena's room burst open with such force the handle struck the wall.
She jerked up from the edge of her bed, her heart lurching into her throat. Damian filled the doorway, his tall frame shadowing the warm glow of her lamp.
His eyes—dark, blazing, dangerous—were locked on her as though she had committed the greatest sin.
"Damian—" she began softly, but his voice cut through like a blade.
"What the hell were you thinking?" His tone was harsh, sharp enough to make her flinch.
"Do you enjoy being paraded across cameras like some spectacle?"
Her lips trembled, but she forced herself to lift her chin. "I didn't ask for any of that," she whispered, her voice trembling but steady enough to sting.
"Then why did you allow your sharp tongue utter those words to..."
" If you're so bothered, if you still love your teenage girlfriend—you shouldn't have brought me here in the first place."
His body went rigid. His jaw flexed. No one—no one—dared speak to him that way.
"You want to talk about Isabel?" His voice dropped low, venom lacing each word. "You know nothing about her.
Nothing about me. And you—" he pointed a finger at her, his glare like fire, "have no right to demand answers."
Tears burned her eyes, but she stood her ground. "Then let me go back. To my aunt, to my life. Just… let me go back."
He crossed the space between them in two strides, his hand snapping around her wrist, gripping it so tightly she gasped. "You think you can leave?"
His face was inches from hers, fury etched in every line. "Don't you dare speak to me like that again, Elena."
Her breath hitched. "You're hurting me, Damian."
His grip tightened, his words cruel and cold. "Remember who you are in this house. You're nobody. Nothing. Just my plaything."
The words struck harder than his grip. Her chest tightened, her heart squeezing painfully. For a moment she thought she'd shatter right there in his hands.
She swallowed hard, blinking away tears, but she couldn't stop her voice from breaking.
His jaw clenched, his grip faltered for just a second—but then the ice returned. He dropped her hand abruptly, turning his back on her, his silence heavier than his words.
Elena crumpled onto her bed the moment the door slammed shut behind Damian. Her hand throbbed where he had gripped her.
But it wasn't the physical ache that tore her apart—it was his words. You're nobody. Just my plaything.
Hot tears spilled freely, soaking her pillow as sobs racked her chest.
She hated herself for feeling the sting, hated her body for betraying her whenever he touched her. She hated him most of all—for making her care.
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