Page 25 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Olga watched me struggle and spoke even more softly.

"His father only taught him how to solve things with fists and power. Nobody taught him how to be kind to someone. The lady—his mother—she loved him, but she..." Her voice caught. "She died too early. The only marriage Kiryan saw growing up was coldness, cheating, and screaming."

In my mind, I saw a younger Kiryan—small, trapped, helpless. My chest tightened.

"So he doesn't trust people, and he doesn't know how to show he cares." Olga sounded sad, but steady. "That doesn't excuse what he did. But it means... today, him taking care of you wasn't just because of a piece of paper."

I thought of the semolina porridge. I thought of the lingering warmth at the corner of my eye.

"But he loves Isabella." Even saying it made my chest ache.

"I met Isabella," Olga said, her tone going flat. "She knows exactly when to smile—right before someone turns their head. She knows whose names to remember and whose to forget. She always knows what everyone can give her."

I didn't defend my sister. A party from years ago flashed in my head.

Back then, in front of everyone, she'd given me an expensive dress, saying she couldn't bear to buy it for herself. But the waist was a full size too small, and the color made my freckles stand out like a spotlight. When her friends laughed at me, she wrapped an arm around my shoulders and told me sweetly not to mind them. In the end, everyone remembered her generosity—and my humiliation.

"You aren't like that." Olga's gaze softened. "You were sick and you still worried calling a doctor would be trouble for the staff. The girl who helped pack up your painting supplies yesterday—she came back and kept asking about you. She worried because you looked like you were about to cry, and you still didn't take it out on her."

"Thank you," I said, my throat tightening. "But I'm not as good as you make me sound."

"You're better than Isabella," Olga said. "I like you. When Kiryan really knows you, he'll like you too."

I didn't answer. I just gave her a polite little smile.

Olga didn't know how obsessed Kiryan had been with Isabella. But I did.

The night of the engagement party—when he'd mistaken me for Isabella—he'd kissed me warm and gentle, like he meant it. In the thickest part of his desire, he'd said my sister's name. Every praise, every touch had belonged to her. Then the lights came on, he saw my face, and all that softness turned to disgust. I knew better than anyone who he really wanted.

Kiryan taking care of me today might have proven he wasn't a monster. It didn't prove he could ever love me. Duty, guilt, even pity for a sick woman—none of that was love.

I had married the man I'd liked for years. It should've been the happiness I'd dreamed about.

But once I became his wife, I had to live in the room farthest from him, listening to him tell me again and again that I wasn't Isabella. That kind of life hurt more than never having him at all.

He was in this house. We shared the same marriage.

And I still couldn't get anywhere near him. Not really.

Chapter 8

Elena

"The dress Mr. Morozov picked is perfect on you." Pera—the maid I'd met on my first day—smoothed the hem while she spoke.

"He picked it himself?"

"Yes, ma'am. And he specifically said not to cake your face with heavy powder."

Heat rose in my chest. I stared at myself in the full-length mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back.

Dark green silk fell clean against my body. No extra frills. The waist hit exactly right.

The freckles my father hated were still there. My hazel eyes still didn't blaze the way Isabella's did. But the deep green made my skin look porcelain, and the cut fit me without turning me into anybody's shadow.

My fingertips drifted up to my cheek.

My father had always said freckles made me look cheap. On the day of the engagement, he'd even told me I was only barely presentable with makeup on. Maybe Kiryan just thought thick makeup didn't suit the dress, but that tiny detail still made my pulse trip.