Tatiana was there—standing in the middle of her room with her arms crossed.
Elena jumped, her hand flying to her chest. "Tia! You scared me—what are you doing in my room this early?"
Tatiana arched a brow, her lips curving into something between a smirk and a frown.
Her eyes swept over Elena, taking in her messy hair, flushed cheeks, and the fact that she was still in last night's nightwear.
"You don't have to answer this," Tatiana said, her voice laced with both disbelief and mockery.
"You spent the night in Damian's room."
Elena's face went crimson. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. "I—I didn't—"
"Oh, save it." Tatiana threw up her hands.
"Wow, Elena. After crying your eyes out because of him… now you're making out with him already?" Her tone was sharp, the kind of edge Elena hadn't heard before.
What's next?"
Elena swallowed hard, shame burning her throat.
Tatiana's eyes narrowed, her voice cutting deeper this time.
"At this rate, the next time you see your aunt, you'll probably already be pregnant."
The words hit Elena like a slap. Her eyes widened, her face drained of color.
Before she could form a reply, Tatiana shook her head, her jaw tight with something between anger and disappointment.
She spun on her heel, storming out of the room, leaving Elena frozen in place.
The silence after her departure was crushing.
Elena sank slowly onto the edge of her bed, her hands trembling as she pressed them against her flat stomach.
Tatiana's words echoed over and over in her head.
Pregnant.
Her breath hitched.
Her mind raced to every heated moment she'd shared with Damian—his control, his hunger, the way he never once… never once used protection.
"Oh God," she whispered, her chest tightening, her pulse wild. "What if…"
Her fingers clutched the fabric of her nightie, her body trembling with fear, shame, and a strange, unwanted warmth at the thought.
Pregnant with Damian Volkov's child.
The very idea left her dizzy, torn between horror and a flicker of something she didn't want to name.
Elena made her way down the grand staircase after freshening up. She moved slowly, her night of restless thoughts weighing on her shoulders.
Her hand slid along the polished banister, her eyes fixed on the gleaming floors below.
Her heart still pounded with the memory of Tatiana's words. Pregnant. The word clung to her like a curse she couldn't shake off.
When she reached the dining hall, the long table was already set—silver cutlery, crystal glasses catching the morning light, and steaming dishes waiting to be touched.
But the chair at the head of the table was empty.
Her stomach tightened.
She turned to the butler, who stood silently at the corner of the room.
"Where's Damian?" she asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.
The butler gave her a polite bow. "Mr. Volkov traveled early this morning, Miss Elena."
Her chest squeezed. "Traveled?" she echoed, her voice thin.
"Yes," the butler replied evenly, hands folded behind his back. "He left before sunrise"
. Elena pressed her lips together, fighting the bitter taste of rejection.
Not a word. Not even a glance before he disappeared.
She forced a small nod and moved toward the table, her hands brushing over the back of a chair before she finally sat down.
As she picked at the food before her, the air shifted. Tatiana walked in, her footsteps light.
Elena blinked, her throat tight. "How?"
Tatiana's words dropped like a stone between them. "Stop talking to Damian."
Elena's eyes widened. "What?"
"You heard me." Tatiana's voice sharpened.
"Cut him off. don't cry over him, don't let him make you his little distraction. If you keep giving him reasons to think you're weak,
He'll never take you to see your aunt. He'll use your anger, your desperation, as a leash."
Elena's chest rose and fell rapidly. "Stop talking to him?" she repeated, her voice almost breaking.
"Yes." Tatiana leaned forward, her tone serious, almost pleading now. "Show him that you can walk away, Elena.
Show him you're not his toy. If he sees that, if you starve him of your reactions, maybe he'll give in.
Maybe he'll finally let you see your aunt."
The room fell into silence. Only the faint ticking of the antique clock filled the air.
Elena sat frozen, her fork untouched, her eyes shimmering with unspoken conflict.
Her heart screamed against Tatiana's demand, but her mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, Tatiana was right.
***
in Italy, the air was different. This wasn't about his underground dealings, not about blood or debts.
He was here strictly for his company. A chain of meetings, contracts, and partnerships that needed his iron-fisted control.
Still, no matter how many business documents sprawled across his desk, his mind betrayed him. His pen hovered. His jaw clenched. Always, she was there. Elena. Her laugh. Her tears.
The sting of guilt from the night she cried. And the taste of her lips the night she kissed him.
A sharp knock at the villa's door snapped him from the haze. His eyes narrowed. He wasn't expecting anyone.
He pushed back his chair, the cold click of his shoes echoing against marble floors as he walked through the vast foyer.
He pulled open the door.
And froze.
"Isabel," he muttered, his voice dropping like a blade.
She stood there, perfectly poised, her long hair cascading down her bare shoulders, a dress clinging to her curves—short, glittering under the villa's golden lights.
Her painted lips curved into a knowing smile. "Surprised to see me?"
Damian's eyes hardened. "What are you doing here? How did you even..?"
She tilted her head, brushing her fingers against the doorway as if she owned it.
"You forget who I am, Damian. Nothing about you has ever been a secret to me. Not then. Not now."
His jaw clenched. "You shouldn't be here."
But Isabel only stepped closer, her perfume—rich, intoxicating—drifting between them. "Why not?" she asked softly, almost seductively.
Damian stared at her in silence, but his chest tightened for all the wrong reasons.
Elena's face flashed across his mind like a cruel reminder. The way her body reacted when he touched her, the way her lips tasted.
His fists tightened at his sides. Stop thinking about her. Stop it, Damian.
Isabel took his silence as an invitation. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
"You've been avoiding me, Damian," she whispered, her eyes locking with his. "But I know you. I know what you need."
She reached up, brushing her hand across his chest. The contact was unwelcome, but his body tensed. His mind screamed Elena, her body, her warmth.
He forced himself to look away, to bury the image of Elena deep inside where it couldn't torment him.
Isabel was here. Isabel was familiar. Isabel was safe because she wasn't dangerous to his heart.
And so, when Isabel's lips brushed against his jawline, Damian didn't stop her. Not because he wanted her.
But because he wanted to punish himself for even thinking of Elena.
He let Isabel press closer, let her fingers curl into his shirt, he did same slipping his hands underneath her.