Page 57 of Beautiful Ruin

So I stay where I am.

The silence that follows after she slams my door shut is deafening.

I sit on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. My chest feels like it’s been cracked wide open and every vulnerable piece of my soul is laid out on display to be ridiculed. The woman I just held and buried myself inside, whose tears I wiped away, just walked out carrying accusations that could destroy the only father figure I have ever known.

Part of me—that small, treacherous part that has been slowly falling apart and cracking since the night she first challenged me—is starting to wonder if she might be right.

19

SOFIA

Frustration has become like a second skin these days.

It hollows me out and fills in the gaps left behind with molten rage every time I catch sight of another armed enforcer at every corner of this damned estate. Their presence has multiplied overnight, guarding doorways, hallways, outside walkways, even the damn perimeter of the gardens.

The worst part is I know exactly who is behind the increase in security measures.

Rowan might not speak to me anymore and he might barely look at me outside of a passing glance if we happen to run into each other in the hallway, but the sudden escalation sings his name in every heavy bootstep and clipped radio transmission that rolls through this house.

It’s a silent punishment.

A quiet declaration of you will not leave again because I said so.

What I cannot understand is how he managed to mobilize half the Kuznetsov Bratva without Ivan questioning it. Unless Rowan lied, or Ivan believes this is exactly how to handle keeping me inside without having to worry about another rendezvous in the city to “clear my head”.

At this point, I don’t know what to believe about any of them anymore.

Every answer I uncover only fractures the foundation beneath my feet. Every secret I chase reveals three more buried underneath the first one. I feel like I’m living in a labyrinth built on lies and loyalty I can no longer trust to be real.

Over the next few days, I wander the estate like a restless spirit, checking for blind spots that might offer a way out of here. But every potential weak point is reinforced come the next morning, sealed shut as if Rowan anticipated my every thought before I even had a chance to make it a reality.

He watches me from a distance. There’s no warmth or softness like before, nothing resembling the man who held me, kissed me, touched me like I was his. Instead, he observes me with a soldier’s detachment, as if I’m just another threat to be contained.

Each time I catch his eye, that unyielding and unreadable expression stares back. He looks resolute, as if he’s made peace with the idea of being the villain in my story if that’s what it takes to keep me confined within these walls.

But intimidation has never been something that sits well with me. If anything, it sparks rebellion even more fiercely inside my chest. The more Rowan closes in around me, the more determined I become to push back.

So I begin to craft a plan.

Not the impulsive kind that got me dragged into his arms and kissed breathless against the kitchen door like last time. This one is calculated, pieced together over several nights as I lie awake while sleep evades me, staring at the ceiling and listening to the steady rhythm of guards patrolling the halls outside my door.

If Rowan thinks he can outmaneuver me at every turn, then he has forgotten one critical truth. I am a Kuznetsov and Kuznetsovs do not surrender. We don’t bend to cages, no matter how gilded or guarded they may be.

The days blur into a careful dance of observation and restraint. I smile politely at the staff and eat the meals placed in front of me. I let the guards escort me from room to room without complaint. On the surface, I appear compliant. Broken in. The perfect little niece who has finally accepted her place inside this fortress.

Inside, I note the shift changes with meticulous care. I memorize the blind spots in the camera coverage, small gaps created by the angle of the lenses and the way the floodlights cast shadows at certain hours over the grounds outside. I listen to the rhythm of the patrols, counting seconds between footsteps, learning when the east garden is least watched.

Rowan watches it all.

Strangely, though, he never approaches me or speaks, but I feel his gaze like a physical weight resting on my shoulders all the same. Sometimes, I catch him in the hallway standing like a shadow at the edge of my vision. Other times, I feel him by the windows, watching me through the reflection of the glass as his eyes track my every movement through the warped surface.

He is always there just out of reach, a silent sentinel enforcing the cage he helped trap me inside.

It hurts more than I want to admit. I tell myself I hate him for it because that’s easier than admitting the truth I refuse to name.

But at night when the estate grows quiet and I lie alone in my bed, I remember the way his hands trembled against my skin. The way he whispered my name like a confession at the altar of his god. The way he looked at me afterward like I was both salvation and damnation wrapped in one fragile package.

I miss him.