The Gold I Married

Chapter Ten

The Volkov family mansion rose before them like a monument to old money and older grudges—grand pillars, manicured gardens, and a double staircase that curved toward the entrance with the indifferent grandeur of a cathedral.

Anna stepped out of the car behind Alex, her heel catching on the gravel. She righted herself quickly, but not quickly enough. The line of luxury cars parked along the driveway told the story: they were late, undeniably late, and the Volkovs despised tardiness the way some families despised debt.

She glanced at Alex, lips parting to say something—sorry, or your fault, or I hate you—but stopped herself. There was no point. If the delay bothered him, he didn't show it. His face was set in that particular mask he wore around his father, the one that made him look carved from the same stone as the mansion.

Beside her, Victor exhaled, low and controlled, staring up at the house like a soldier approaching a field he'd already bled on.

"Here we go again," he muttered.

Anna almost smiled. Almost.

The front doors swung open before they reached them, and laughter spilled out—warm, practiced, effortless. The Volkov family descended the staircase in a pack, a moving portrait of unity that made Anna's stomach clench.

Her eyes moved across them and stopped on one face.

"Oh my God," she breathed. "It's the devil."

"To you, maybe."

She blinked. Victor was looking at her, one corner of his mouth lifted in something that wasn't quite a smile.

"My devil is different from yours," he said quietly.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat, but she killed it just as Mr. Volkov's voice cut through the evening air.

"Anna!"

She straightened instantly, stepping forward with the warm, practiced smile she'd perfected in front of mirrors.

"Good evening, Daddy."

She embraced him, and for just a moment, the stern lines of his face softened. Mr. Volkov was a hard man, but he had always been kind to her—perhaps because he saw something useful in her ambition, or perhaps because he simply enjoyed watching his son squirm.

"How are you, my dear?"

"I'm doing well." She made her voice sincere, almost soft. "But I miss you."

He chuckled, pulling back to study her with eyes that missed nothing. "You say that, yet you rarely visit." His gaze sharpened, sliding toward his son. "The last time I invited you to dinner, you claimed you had plans with Alex. Imagine my surprise when I saw someone who looked remarkably like my son at the office that same evening."

Anna felt the trap snap shut around her ankle. She turned her head smoothly, offering the information like a gift wrapped in blame.

"Well," she said, "perhaps you should ask Alex why he canceled at the last minute and left me standing there."

Mr. Volkov's head swiveled. "Alex."

The warmth vanished from his voice, replaced by something flatter and more dangerous.

Alex exhaled slowly, a sound of pure irritation. "Maybe you should ask for my side before deciding I'm guilty."

Mr. Volkov studied him—the way a butcher studies meat. Then he waved his hand, dismissing the entire conversation, his son's dignity along with it.

"We'll discuss it later."

Dismissed. Just like that. The way Alex had dismissed her a hundred times, and suddenly Anna didn't feel quite so alone in her humiliation.

She turned to Mrs. Volkov, arranging her face into polite neutrality. "Good evening, Mrs. Volkov."

The older woman didn't look at her. Didn't acknowledge her existence. Instead, Mrs. Volkov's face transformed, lit from within by a warmth Anna had never once been offered, as she reached past her daughter-in-law to pull Victor into an embrace.

"My sweet boy," she cooed, her voice dripping affection like honey over broken glass. "Come. Everyone is waiting."

Victor allowed himself to be guided away, but his eyes found Anna's for one brief second—apologetic, almost guilty, as if he were abandoning her to something he knew she couldn't survive alone.

Anna followed Alex into the dining room, and the moment they crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. Conversation dimmed to a murmur. Eyes lingered, measured her, found her wanting. She took her seat with quiet composure, folding her hands in her lap like a good girl, like she hadn't spent the morning kicking her husband's car tire and calling him a beast.

But it touched her. Of course it did. She had promised herself she wouldn't react this time, wouldn't let them see her bleed. Not here. Not in front of them. Not again.

"I do hate when the atmosphere changes," Mrs. Volkov said, lifting her wine glass with the delicate precision of a woman who had never once in her life been denied anything. Her tone was soft, refined, and utterly cruel. "It's fascinating how certain presences can alter an entire room."