The morning after the wedding, sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Volkov estate, touching every inch of the pristine white marble floors. Isabella had barely slept.
Her room — more like a luxury hotel suite — was elegant, sterile, and eerily silent. No ticking clock. No humming AC. Just the overwhelming emptiness of a house built to impress, not comfort.
She pulled on the silk robe laid out for her and padded into the hallway. Everything about this place screamed power. Cold, expensive power. The walls were lined with abstract art in gold frames. Not a single family photo in sight.
The house didn't feel lived in. It felt managed.
She followed the scent of coffee toward the kitchen.
Dominic was already there, dressed in a crisp navy suit, black tie, and polished shoes like he hadn't even slept. He sat at the long marble island, scrolling through his tablet, a cup of black coffee in front of him.
He didn't look up when she entered.
"Good morning to you too," she muttered under her breath.
"There's breakfast on the counter," he said flatly. "The chef leaves at 7:30."
"Of course. Wouldn't want to interrupt the Volkov routine," she said, grabbing a croissant she didn't want just to fill the silence.
He finally looked up. "You're not expected to eat with me."
"I didn't realize my presence was that offensive."
He set the tablet down. "We should go over the house rules."
"Oh good. I was hoping there'd be rules."
He ignored her sarcasm. "You'll be scheduled for public appearances twice a week. Charity galas, business dinners, and two photoshoots for Eclaire magazine next month."
She blinked. "Wait — photoshoots? I didn't sign up to be some fashion doll—"
"You signed up to be my wife. That includes being seen."
She stared at him. "Seen — not heard. Is that it?"
"If you plan to speak, at least make sure it's worth the press coverage."
Her mouth fell open. "Are you serious?"
His eyes were unreadable. "Deadly."
She set her croissant down. "What about privacy? Am I allowed to leave the house?"
"Yes. Within reason. You'll have a driver and security at all times. No media interviews without my approval. And I don't expect you to interfere with my work."
"Define 'interfere.'"
"Don't show up at my office unannounced. Don't make scenes. And don't bring emotion into this."
She folded her arms. "God, you really don't feel anything, do you?"
A flicker crossed his face — too quick to name.
He stood, grabbing his phone. "We leave in an hour. There's a welcome luncheon at the Harrington Hotel. Wear something red."
She scoffed. "Any particular reason, or is that just part of the 'cold tyrant aesthetic'?"
His gaze lingered on her for a moment.
"Because red is the only color that makes you look alive."
Then he was gone.
An hour later, Isabella stood in front of the walk-in closet that looked more like a designer showroom than a wardrobe. Hundreds of dresses in shades of elegance and status. Most still had tags.
A note was taped to one hanger:
"Helena says wear this. – D"
She rolled her eyes and yanked the red off-the-shoulder dress from the rack. Tight. Bold. A statement.
Fine. Let the world see her. She had nothing to hide.
The driver took them to the Harrington Hotel, where reporters were already stationed outside the main entrance. Dominic offered her his arm just as the cameras began to flash.
He leaned in and whispered through clenched teeth, "Smile."
"Say please."
He didn't. She smiled anyway — but not for him. For herself. For the cameras. For the story she was now a part of, like it or not.
Inside, the ballroom glittered with chandeliers and high society. Every eye turned toward them.
Dominic's grip on her arm was firm, but not painful. He guided her with precision — every move rehearsed, every gesture measured.
They stopped at a round table where CEOs, heiresses, and two magazine editors waited.
"Dominic," an older man said, standing to shake his hand. "And this must be the new Mrs. Volkov."
Isabella smiled sweetly. "Please, call me Isabella. 'Mrs. Volkov' makes me sound like I'm trapped in a mansion with a stranger."
There was a tense pause. Then the table laughed — unsure whether it was a joke or a threat.
Dominic's jaw twitched.
She leaned in to whisper, "Relax. I'm just playing my part."
"You're playing with fire."
"Then you shouldn't have handed me the match."
The luncheon dragged on, filled with polite lies and forced smiles. Dominic handled everything with cold grace — nodding at the right moments, giving curt answers, and avoiding unnecessary warmth like it was poison.
Isabella, on the other hand, was drawing attention. Her beauty was undeniable, but it was her fire that caught people off guard.
She laughed, asked real questions, didn't fawn over status. And for every polite jab she made, she noticed something…
Dominic watched her.
Carefully. Quietly.
As if he didn't understand how someone like her — so warm, so defiant — had ended up in his life.
On the drive home, silence hung between them. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Until he finally said, "What was that back there?"
"What?"
"You were… different. Charming."
She turned to him, annoyed. "Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Well, I've been pretending my whole life, Dominic. Smiling when I want to scream. Laughing when my world's falling apart. It's called surviving."
He didn't reply.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
That evening, Isabella sat alone on the back terrace, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the stars.
She heard footsteps but didn't turn.
"I'm not in the mood for another lecture," she said.
"I'm not here to lecture."
Dominic sat down beside her — not close, but not far.
They watched the sky for a long moment.
"You weren't what I expected," he said finally.
She glanced at him. "And what did you expect?"
"A quiet woman. Obedient. Grateful. Discreet."
"Sorry to disappoint."
He shook his head slightly. "No. You're not a disappointment. You're a problem."
She snorted. "Thanks."
"I don't like problems."
"Then you married the wrong girl."
He looked at her then. Really looked.
For the first time, there was something soft in his gaze — confusion, maybe. Intrigue. A flicker of something human.
"I'm starting to realize that," he said.
They sat in silence again.
And though no promises were made, no apologies spoken, something shifted between them that night — small, but real.
The ice hadn't melted.
But it cracked.