Chapter Five: A Scar Beneath the Ice
Larissa didn't sleep that night.
Even in the silence of her room, beneath the expensive silk sheets and soft glow of the night lamp, her thoughts wouldn't let her rest.
Lukyan's words echoed like a curse.
"I was afraid of you."
Not afraid of what she'd do.
But what she made him feel.
It shouldn't have mattered. Their marriage was a business deal. An exchange. A ten-year contract signed with icy precision. Three children. Separate lives.
No room for vulnerability.
And yet, somewhere between Roman's first laugh and Alina's tiny hands reaching for her, somewhere between the quiet dinners and unspoken glances, something real had grown.
Something dangerous.
She found him in the study the next morning.
As always, he was composed. Immaculately dressed. A fresh black shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Reading glasses perched on his nose as he studied a document on the glass desk.
But she noticed the untouched coffee beside him.
He hadn't slept either.
"You're up early," he said without looking up.
"I didn't sleep."
He finally raised his head. "Because of me?"
Larissa didn't answer.
She stepped closer, arms crossed. "Why are you doing this?"
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Define 'this.'"
"You're... changing. Paying attention. Being here."
"I've always been here."
"No," she said sharply. "You were present. But never here. Never really with me."
He stood, slowly, walking around the desk until he was inches away. "And now?"
She hesitated. "Now I don't know what to believe."
Lukyan's hand brushed her arm—not a grab, not a demand. Just a touch.
"I was raised to be cold," he said, voice low. "Control was everything. Emotions were weakness. But you... you never followed the rules."
She stared at him, stunned.
He smiled, just barely. "You smiled at strangers. Cried during old movies. Danced barefoot in the garden after a storm."
"You watched me?"
"I watched everything. And I hated how much I needed to."
Her breath caught.
"I told myself I'd never give you power. But you already had it. The moment you walked into that contract negotiation in your red blazer and told me to 'cut the games.'"
Larissa blinked. "You remember what I wore?"
"I remember everything about you."
She was falling.
And she didn't know how to stop.
Later that day, she found an envelope on her pillow. No note. Just her name, in Lukyan's clean handwriting.
Inside was a photograph.
Old. Slightly worn.
A little boy with sharp blue eyes and bruises on his arms, standing beside a man who looked like Lukyan, only crueler. Colder.
On the back, a date.
Lukyan Volkov. Age 7.
She clutched the photo, heart in her throat.
He had never spoken about his childhood. Never let her close enough to ask.
But now?
Now he was handing her the scar.
And daring her to look.
That night, Larissa found him in the children's wing, reading to Alina. His voice was gentle, deeper than usual as he read The Snow Queen, a story too poetic for a toddler, but Alina clung to every word.
Larissa leaned on the doorframe, watching as Lukyan kissed Alina's forehead and whispered something in Russian. The little girl giggled before drifting to sleep.
He turned, startled to find her there.
"I didn't mean to intrude," she said.
"You didn't."
She walked over, still holding the photo. She held it out.
He looked at it. Then at her.
"I'm not him," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
"I know," she replied. "But I wish you'd told me sooner."
"So do I."
They stood in silence, years of distance slowly melting between them.
Then, softly, she said, "I don't hate you, Lukyan
He looked at her like the word had wonder him more than any blade
"Then why are you still planning to leave?"
Larissa couldn't answer.
Because she didn't know anymore.