Page 18 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Those brushes were what I'd bought with the first money I'd ever made selling a painting anonymously. I'd stretched those paints for months, squeezing out every last bit. In the pieces they'd taken, there were unfinished commissions—and so many works I couldn't bear to destroy.

They were pieces of me I'd hidden, inch by inch, inside that suffocating life at the Rossi house. And now, everything I'd treasured had been tossed out like garbage and hauled away. I leaned against the freezing dumpster, my legs giving out until I slid down and sat in the mud and runoff.

Rain hit my face nonstop, mixing with my tears, running into the corners of my mouth—bitter enough to choke me.

My father hadn't allowed me to paint. Isabella had laughed and called my work worthless. And now Kiryan had thrown it all away like it meant nothing.

I'd thought that once I left the Rossi house, at least I could keep this one thing that belonged to me.

But in that moment, I finally understood I hadn't gotten freedom.

I'd just been moved from one cage into another—colder, crueler, and locked even tighter.

Chapter 6

Kiryan

The chair across from me stayed empty.

I cut into the fried eggs on my plate, and the yolk slid down the blade in a slow, thick stream. The wall clock had already pushed past nine. Elena still hadn't shown.

Last night a maid had told me Elena had stood there and watched them haul off her canvases and paint, then had run out into the rain, chased them to the backyard, and dug through the dumpster for a long time. She probably thought that if she dodged me with that silent little rebellion, I'd feel guilty for tossing her stuff.

I shoved the eggs to the edge of the plate. A few seconds later, I dragged them back. That smear of gold made my skin crawl.

What the hell did she have to be mad about? If she hadn't driven Isabella off and schemed her way into the Morozov family, I wouldn't have touched her things. Everything she was dealing with now? She'd brought it on herself.

I looked at the maid standing off to the side.

"Pera. Why didn't Elena come down?"

Pera had been setting a tray—thin semolina porridge, a glass of water, fever meds. At my voice, she froze.

"Madam said she doesn't feel well. She isn't coming down for breakfast. The kitchen already prepared her food. I was about to take it upstairs."

Madam. The word scraped my nerves raw. She'd been here one day and everyone was already treating her like the real lady of the house. Things were sliding out of my hands faster than I'd expected.

"Don't."

"But sir, Madam hasn't eaten since last night." Worry pulled at Pera's face.

"She said she didn't feel well and you just swallowed it?" I set my fork down. My appetite died on the spot. "Playing the wounded little martyr is her favorite trick. You called her 'madam' a couple times and she probably started believing she deserved it."

The dining room went dead quiet. The other staff kept their heads down, no one daring to breathe wrong. Pera still held the tray like it weighed a ton.

"Take it away." I stared her down. "Today, nobody brings Elena food."

"Nobody brings who food?"

A woman's voice cut in from the doorway—full, sharp, and fearless.

Olga.

She'd been my mother's maid once. Now she ran this manor for me. She'd been here most of her life, had watched me go from a kid who couldn't hold a gun steady to a Pakhan people stepped aside for. She was the only one who still spoke to me like that.

Olga walked in, peeled off her gloves, and handed them to the servant behind her. Her gray-white hair sat perfectly in place. Her shoulders stayed square, strong from years of work.

She glanced at the tray on the table, then at me. No fear in her eyes—just that blunt, pissed-off look an elder gave when they caught you being stupid.