THE MAFIA WIFE EXCHANGE

Chapter 4 : A Proper Introduction

Rose's POV

Sunlight was already streaming through the tall windows by the time I awoke, spilling over the silk sheets like liquid gold. The bed beside me was empty — as I'd expected.

A dull ache settled somewhere within me, reminding me of the night before, but I wasn't going to remain there and complain. Enough tears. Enough helplessness.

I took a robe and tied the belt around my waist tightly and went to the mirror. My face was puffy from crying, my hair an uncombed halo around my head. I looked like a bride ghost, the kind whose tales people would whisper in tragic love stories.

"Damn it," I muttered at myself. "If I'm going to be a wife, I'm not going to be a useless one."

I had cried myself to bed — and that I might forgive. But I was not going to live the rest of my life hiding in corners because Nikolai Volkov decided to treat me like something disposable. I'd promised myself that day when my father told me about the marriage. Following three days of non-stop sobbing, I'd sworn I would not crack, no matter how cruel my fate became.

Straightening my spine, I went into the hallway.

The marble floor cooled my feet, and the long corridor stretched on and on, lined with chandeliers that glimmered in the morning light. Too big, too quiet, this house was. A kingdom without heart.

I followed up the curved staircase, remembering dimly how Mara had taken me upstairs last night after all that. I was sore, my body reminding me of every harsh second, every confusing moment that blurred into pain.

I walked dazed when I ran into something hard — no, someone.

I backed off, breathless, and rigid hands grasped me before I fell to the ground.

"Easy there," a low, unplaceable voice said.

I looked up — and froze.

It was a new face, but I recognized him at once.

Ivan Volkov. Nikolai's twin brother.

The resemblance was appalling — same sharp jawline, same cold, aristocratic features. But where Nikolai's eyes had been sharp and stormy, Ivan's were cooler, quieter — the kind of stillness that came before something lethal. He had a tiny scar from eyebrow to left eye, which helped make him look even more feral.

He was attractive, in a lethal manner. The kind of man you wouldn't look at for too long.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low but smooth. His hand was still on my waist, firm, grounding.

I nodded hurriedly, trying to find my balance. "I—I'm okay. Thanks."

He tilted his head, regarding me. "You're Nikolai's wife."

"Yes." The word was tight.

Something impossible to read flashed across his face. Then he nodded curtly. "What are you doing walking around?"

"I'm… seeking out Nikolai," I lied. It wasn't really a lie — I had been thinking of confronting him. Confronting him to talk about things. To demand something that was tantamount to a marriage.

Ivan's expression softened, almost imperceptibly. "He should be in the hall to the left," he said, tilting his head in that direction. "Training room."

I smiled weakly. "Thanks."

He blinked once, his left eye closing in a practiced movement to scan my soul. "Did you have a good night?"

My throat tightened. I forced on a cordial smile and nodded, even though the reality burned behind my eyes.

"Newsflash: yes." He flashed a thin, humorless smile. "I'll see you around, Mrs. Volkov.".

His tone was detached — cold, like mafia men were prone to being — but there was something in it. A slice of curiosity, even concern. His hand lingered an extra beat on my waist before he finally released me.

I whispered a gentle goodbye and headed down the hallway he'd pointed me toward.

The deeper I went, the quieter it became — until I could only hear the muffled thudding of my heart and the reverberation of footsteps that didn't belong to me. I slowed down as I heard something else — slow, rhythmic sounds. Grunts.

I raised an eyebrow. Ivan said this was the hall.

I stopped in front of a partially open door, resting my hand on the wood. A low sound escaped — one that dropped my gut.

A woman's voice. A groan.

And then — his name.

"Nikolai."

My breath caught in my throat.

No. No, no, no.

It had not even been a full day since we were married. Because he'd held my face in his palms and kissed me in front of our families like I was the only woman on earth.

I trembled to open the door just an inch to peer.

And there it was — the kind of view that tears you from the inside out.

Nikolai, shirtless, his hands on another woman's body like she was his — like I never existed.

I couldn't catch my breath for one moment. I just stared — rigid, vacant, my mind refusing to believe what my eyes witnessed.

Something in me snapped. "Nikolai," I breathed, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He turned.

We stood there, staring at each other.

And he smiled — the smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Rose," he replied calmly, his voice level, unemotional. "Did you want something?"

The woman by his side gasped, grabbing at the bedding. I couldn't even bear to glance in her direction.

"You…" I gulped, struggling to create words that made sense. "You're having an affair with her?"

He laughed. "An affair? That's a quaint word where we come from."

My eyes grew blurry with tears. "We married yesterday."

He stood, unmoving, grabbing his shirt from the chair. "And today, I'm busy. Don't enter rooms uninvited."

As he walked past me, I stretched out, pleading, stupidly hoping for an explanation.

"Wait—"

His hand shot out fast — too fast — around my throat.

The shock of it left me panting, my hands flying to his wrist. His grip was not tight enough to break bones, but firm enough to remind me exactly where I stood.

"Never again interfere in my business," he sneered, his eyes black as coal. "You carry my name, but you do not have the right to question me. Remember your place, Rose."

Tears stung at the edges of my eyes once more, unwelcome, burning. I let out a small, splintered whimper, the sound escaping before I could shut it off.

He placed me aside like something unimportant — pushing past me without a glance back — and walked off down the hallway.

I stood shaking there, my hand cradling my throat where his had laid.

What was wrong with this man?

What had I done to make him treat me this way?

He was my husband yesterday — the man who had smiled at me at the altar. And now, he was a stranger with a capacity for cruelty that I never imagined.

With the door closed behind him, I looked into the empty room — the tousled bed, perfume smell in the air — and knew that I hadn't married into power.

I married into hell.