The Gold I Married

Chapter Three

Alexander Volkov slammed the car door shut and made his way up the stone steps of the mansion. The house loomed before him, its grand facade imposing, yet utterly devoid of warmth. It was his home, his fortress, but to him, it felt as cold as the business deals that had built it.

The moment he stepped inside, the familiar scent of expensive candles and polished wood greeted him, along with the faint aroma of something cooked, probably by Anna.

Anna.

He sighed as he shrugged off his coat, handing it to the butler without a word. She had been playing the role of the dutiful wife again, hadn’t she? He could see it already: the elaborate dinner she’d arranged, the way she’d fuss over every detail, all of it a performance.

He appreciated her ambition, in a way. It had been clear from the start why she’d wanted this marriage. She wanted the name, the lifestyle, the power that came with being Mrs. Volkov. He had no illusions about her feelings, just as he had none about his own.

Alexander had married her because his father liked her and it was convenient. Nothing more.

When he stepped into the kitchen, there she was, standing by the table, a picture of poised perfection. Her dark hair framed her face like it had been styled moments before, and she wore an expression of carefully practiced concern, as though she’d been waiting all night for him.

“I made dinner for you,” she said, her voice soft and inviting.

The sight of the table irritated him. He didn’t want this. The false gestures. The pretense.

“Get out of my way,” he muttered, brushing past her.

“Alexander, what’s wrong?” Her voice followed him, tinged with just enough worry to make it sound genuine.

He stopped, turning to face her. “What’s wrong? You married me for money. I’ve given you everything you ever wanted. So why can’t you let me be? Why do you insist on pretending this is something it’s not?”

Without waiting for her response, he turned and headed upstairs.

In the master bedroom, the familiar darkness greeted him. He stood by the window, gazing out at the city lights in the distance, his mind drifting to her.

Klara.

It had been years, but her memory still lingered in every corner of his life. She had been the one person who had seen him, truly seen him, and loved him for who he was, not what he could offer. He had thought time would dull the ache of her loss, but it hadn’t.

Anna could never be her. He hadn’t expected her to be. But sometimes, when he looked at his wife, he felt the weight of what he’d lost all over again.

Alexander went into the washroom to freshen up and made his way out of the room. The house was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the central heating.

He found himself turning and walking down the hall toward Victor’s room. Perhaps checking in on his son would settle him.

When he reached Victor’s door, it was slightly ajar, and the faint clink of a fork against a plate caught his attention. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Victor was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a tray balanced on his lap. On it was a plate of food, the same dinner Anna had prepared.

“You’re eating,” Alexander said, surprised.

Victor looked up, startled. “Dad. Yeah, I was starving.”

Alexander’s gaze fell to the tray. “Where’d you get the food?”

Victor hesitated, then shrugged. “Miss Anna gave it to me.”

Alexander blinked, his surprise evident. “Anna gave you food?”

Victor smirked, cutting into a piece of chicken. “I was as surprised as you are. And, uh, she made it clear I didn’t have a choice.”

For a moment, Alexander just stood there, processing. Then he sighed and sat down in the chair by Victor’s desk, unbuttoning his jacket. “What’s left? I’m starving.”

Victor raised an eyebrow but pushed the tray slightly toward his father. “Help yourself.”

Alexander picked up a fork and leaned back in the chair. They ate in companionable silence for a few moments before Alexander spoke again. “Why don’t you two just talk? It’s weird.”

Alexander paused mid-bite, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Talk about what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. She’s trying, I guess,” Victor said, shrugging. “Not that I’m defending her or anything.”

Alexander’s gaze flicked to the tray, his thoughts unreadable. “Trying,” he muttered under his breath.

Victor didn’t push further, sensing his father’s mood shifting. He leaned back against his pillows and finished the last bite of his chicken.

“Well, thanks for eating with me, I guess,” Victor said, breaking the silence. “But next time, maybe knock first?”

Alexander gave him a rare, faint smile. “Noted.”

Standing, he straightened his jacket and gestured to the empty tray. “Clean that up before you sleep.”

Victor rolled his eyes but nodded. “Good night, Dad.”

“Good night,” Alexander replied, pausing briefly at the door before leaving.