TITLE: WIFE OF THE DEVIL
1136 Words
CHAPTER FOUR
I didn't tell my mother.
I couldn't.
How do you look the woman who gave birth to you in the eyes and tell her you were marrying the man who destroyed your family?
You don't.
You lie.
And that was exactly what I did.
The next morning, I sat at the breakfast table while Mother stirred her tea with trembling fingers and Sophia pushed food around her plate without eating.
No one had an appetite anymore.
Grief had become the fourth person living in this house.
"I'm meeting with the lawyer today," I said carefully.
Mother nodded distractedly.
"Good. Ask him if there's any new update about your father."
I swallowed.
There was.
A very big update.
But I said nothing.
Coward.
Sophia looked at me.
She knew.
Her eyes begged me to say something.
To stop this.
To run.
But where would I run to? Roman Volkov had the kind of reach that made geography irrelevant. Even the moon would probably report back to him.
"I'll handle it," I said softly.
Mother reached across the table and squeezed my hand. For a second, I almost broke.
"You've always been the strong one," she whispered.
No. I wasn't. I was just the one who cried in private.
I smiled anyway. Because sometimes love looks like lying.
By noon, I was standing in front of the courthouse waiting for Roman's driver. Because apparently, when the devil wants you, he sends luxury transportation. A black Rolls-Royce pulled up. Of course. Because subtlety was clearly not part of Roman's personality.
The driver stepped out.
"Miss Rossi."
I hated how quickly I was getting used to that title sounding temporary. Soon it would be worse. Mrs. Volkov. God.
I got in. The drive was silent. Manhattan moved outside the tinted windows like a life I was already leaving behind. Restaurants I loved. Shops I used to visit. Places that belonged to the old Elena. She was disappearing. And I wasn't sure I wanted to save her.
We stopped in front of a private estate hidden behind gates so tall they looked like they were designed to keep secrets from God. Roman's house. No. Roman's kingdom. The gates opened slowly. The driveway alone looked more expensive than most people's entire lives.
I stepped out and looked up at the mansion. Cold. Massive. Beautiful. Terrifying. Like him. The front doors opened before I could ring the bell. A woman in black greeted me.
"Miss Rossi. Mr. Volkov is waiting."
Of course he was. He always seemed to be waiting. Like patience was just another weapon he used.
I followed her through halls lined with expensive art and expensive silence. Everything in this house screamed control. Nothing looked accidental. Nothing felt warm.
At the end of the hallway- Roman. He stood near the fireplace, reading something on his phone, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Why did men like him always look better when they were ruining lives? He looked up. And there it was again. That gaze. Like he was reading my sins.
"You're late."
I checked the clock. I was three minutes late. I folded my arms.
"I was considering escape."
His mouth twitched.
"You would've been found."
Arrogant bastard. I stepped closer.
"Do you rehearse these villain lines or do they come naturally?"
He placed his phone down.
"Only for you."
I hated that my heart noticed. I hated that my body had chosen betrayal. Because attraction was deeply inconvenient.
He gestured to the papers on the table.
"Prenuptial documents. Security arrangements. Wedding details."
I stared.
"Today?"
"Yes."
"You're serious."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Elena, I proposed with blackmail. Did I strike you as unserious?"
Fair point. I sat down and started flipping through the papers. Private ceremony. No media. Strict confidentiality. Transfer of legal protection for my father. Financial clauses. Inheritance terms. This wasn't a marriage. It was a corporate hostage situation. Then I saw it. My hand froze.
"Children?"
Roman watched me carefully.
"Yes."
I looked up sharply.
"No."
His voice stayed calm.
"It says expected heirs."
"I can read."
"Good."
I stood immediately.
"No. Absolutely not."
His expression didn't move.
"Elena-"
"No. You do not get to force children into this insanity."
"They would be legitimate heirs."
"They would be therapy bills."
Silence. Heavy. Then he walked closer. Dangerously calm.
"Sit down."
I laughed once.
"No."
His voice dropped.
"Sit. Down."
Every instinct in me screamed not to obey. And yet- I sat. Damn him. Roman leaned against the table, close enough to make breathing feel unnecessary.
"I am not asking for children tomorrow."
"Wonderful. How generous."
"But if this marriage becomes real-"
"It won't."
His jaw tightened.
"It already is."
I stared at him.
"I hate you."
He nodded once.
"I know."
"Good."
Because I needed him to know. Needed him to understand that every signature, every step, every breath inside this arrangement came soaked in resentment. He studied me for a moment. Then said quietly-
"You think hate protects you."
My throat tightened.
"It does."
"No." His voice softened. "It only keeps you close enough to burn."
Damn him. Damn his stupid beautiful face and his stupid terrifying honesty. I looked away first. Because losing eye contact felt safer than losing myself.
A woman entered carrying garment bags.
"The dress has arrived, sir."
I blinked.
"The dress?"
Roman answered without looking away from me.
"Yes. Your wedding dress."
I stared at him.
"You bought my wedding dress?"
"Yes."
"You chose it?"
"Yes."
"Without asking me?"
A pause. Then-
"Yes."
I threw my pen at him. He caught it. Actually caught it. Like he had expected violence. Honestly, fair.
"This is exactly why people probably want to assassinate you."
His lips almost smiled.
"Only one of the reasons."
The woman wisely stayed silent. I pointed at the garment bag.
"I am not wearing something chosen by a man who thinks emotional terrorism is romance."
Roman stepped forward. Very close. Too close. His voice dropped low.
"Wear the dress, Elena."
I swallowed.
"No."
His fingers brushed lightly against my wrist. Not force. Worse. Gentleness. And that was somehow more dangerous.
"Wear it," he said again, quieter now, "because tomorrow when you walk toward me... I want the whole world to know exactly who you belong to."
My pulse stumbled. Anger. Definitely anger. Nothing else. I pulled my hand away.
"I belong to no one."
Roman's grey eyes held mine. Cold. Certain.
"Keep telling yourself that."
And for the first time- I realized the truly terrifying part of marrying Roman Volkov wasn't his power. It wasn't his violence. It wasn't even his obsession. It was this- a small, traitorous part of me wanted to know what it would feel like... To be chosen that completely. And that was far more dangerous than love.
- Writer
