Inside, the silence was unsettling. No maids bustled, no laughter echoed—just emptiness. Ivan Petrovich led them through wide corridors lined with expensive art, finally stopping before double oak doors. He knocked gently, then opened them.
“Stas,” he said, voice firm but soft. “Meet your wife.”
Tatiana’s breath caught.
There, by the tall window, sat a man in a wheelchair. His dark hair hung in messy strands over his forehead, his eyes distant, almost glassy, staring at the garden outside. His face was striking—handsome once, perhaps still, but etched with bitterness.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t greet her. Just muttered, “Another one of your schemes, father? Leave me alone.”
Ivan’s jaw tightened. “Not a scheme. A marriage. You’ll treat her with respect.”
Finally, Stas looked at Tatiana. His eyes were sharp now, piercing her soul, as though he could read every fear she carried. “And you? What’s your price?”
Tatiana flushed crimson. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play innocent,” Stas spat. “Why else would you agree to this? My father buys loyalty. So tell me—what did he promise? Money? A house? Treatment for your kid?”
Her throat tightened. Sonya, clutching her small toy rabbit, hid behind her skirt.
Ivan Petrovich’s voice thundered: “Enough! She’s your wife now. Treat her as such.”
But Tatiana’s pride flared. “Yes,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “He promised help for my daughter. And I accepted. Because unlike you, she doesn’t have the luxury of giving up on life.”
The room fell into heavy silence. Stas stared at her, stunned. Something in her words sliced through his self-pity like a blade.
Then, without warning, he burst into bitter laughter. “Fine, then. Let’s see how long you last in this golden cage.”
But as Tatiana stood there, chin lifted despite her shaking hands, Ivan Petrovich’s heart pounded with something he hadn’t felt in years—hope.
Because for the first time in seven years… his son’s eyes weren’t empty.