The morning light filtered weakly through the heavy drapes, casting a pale glow across my cluttered nightstand. When a sharp knock interrupted the silence, I opened the door to find one of Mr. Agosti’s men standing stiffly with a small velvet box in his hand.

He extended it wordlessly, and inside lay an extravagant diamond ring—cold and gleaming. My heart sank before it even had the chance to rise.

Almost immediately, my tranquility shattered. Mama's sharp eyes caught sight of the ring, and without a word, her hand swung viciously across my cheek. The stinging blow left a jagged cut, crimson blossoming where her ring had grazed my skin. Blood trickled down my face, hot and humiliating.

Not far behind, Anastasia's lips trembled with fury and tears. She flung the ring box against my cheek, the lid snapping open, jewels glittering mockingly before she spun away, sobbing loudly.

"See? That Italian scum doesn’t even have the decency to present the ring himself," Mama spat, her voice thick with venom. "Not worth his time, worthless you."

I sank to my knees, fingers trembling as I gathered the fallen box and ring, pressing them carefully into the velvet cushion before tucking them away in my nightstand drawer. I resolved only to wear it when no one was watching—lest it provoke more anger and cruelty.

Blood continued to drip from the fresh cut, and I hurriedly grabbed a napkin to blot the wound, cheeks burning with shame. After scouring for a bandage, I placed it gently over the gash, then lay back on the threadbare blanket I had clutched since childhood, staring up at the peeling ceiling.

Why had he chosen me? Was I merely a token to distract him while he sought pleasure elsewhere, silent as my father had decreed I must be? The cold, merciless darkness in Mr. Agosti’s eyes haunted me, a silent promise of pain yet to come.

He seemed like the kind of man who would not hesitate to break me—or worse.

"Miss Novikov?" A soft voice roused me. Jane, one of the maids, stood hesitantly at the door, concern etched across her tired face. She had always been a quiet guardian of my battered body, cleaning away the evidence of Papa's rages.

"Yes, Jane?" I managed a faint smile, grateful for the rare kindness.

Her eyes flicked to the bloodstained bandage wrapped clumsily around my cheek. "Your father wants to see you in his office."

My stomach dropped. I nodded silently and closed the door behind her, hastily brushing my tangled hair into a semblance of neatness. Papa loathed disorder; he said untidy hair was distracting, though I sensed it reminded him of Nikolai—his lost son with wild, rebellious locks.

Walking the long, cold corridor to Papa's office, the familiar stench of cigarettes and stale liquor hit me like a wall. The air was thick and suffocating, heavy with dread.

He beckoned me to sit without looking up from the haze of smoke curling from his cigarette. I lowered myself onto the chair opposite him, voice trembling, "You called for me?"

He exhaled a plume of smoke and flicked ashes into the tray. "You’re moving out tomorrow afternoon."

"W-where?" I whispered, heart pounding.

"Mr. Agosti demands his little plaything at his estate by tomorrow."

The words hit me like a blow. I was to leave this prison for another, one ruled by a man whose silence was as deadly as his reputation.

"The maids will pack your things. Don’t leave a trace here. Understand?" His voice was cold, final.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, and hurried out, relief flooding me as I escaped the suffocating room.

Back in my chamber, my thoughts churned in a storm of disbelief and fear. How could someone like me—marred, overlooked, broken—be chosen over Anastasia? Perfection had always been her armor; what twisted game was this?

Was he a monster? Would he be worse than Papa? The chilling image of his dark, unyielding gaze haunted my every moment.

I pulled out my small, worn bag and began to pack the few possessions I owned: faded tops, a single pair of jeans, pajamas, undergarments, a battered hairbrush, and the almost empty chapstick that had been my small comfort.

Tomorrow, I would leave this place—the only home I’d ever known—for a different kind of nightmare, one ruled not by blood and fear alone, but by silence and shadow.

As I folded the last shirt, my fingers trembled, and a quiet resolve settled over me. No matter what awaited, I would survive. I had to.