CHAPTER 19

Elara stepped out of the bathroom, her skin still warm from the shower, and a soft trail of steam curling into the hallway behind her. She walked back into her bedroom with a towel wrapped around her, the wine-colored dress Nikolai had picked for her hanging proudly from the closet door like a crown jewel. It shimmered slightly in the morning light that poured through her window, delicate and elegant, and somehow perfect.

She dressed carefully, smoothing the fabric over her body with her palms, admiring the way it hugged her curves and flowed down just past her knees. It had a modest neckline but a figure-enhancing fit, striking the perfect balance between appropriate for church and still stunning enough to stand next to a man who oozed power and wealth with every breath.

Elara slipped on a pair of nude heels that complemented the dress without stealing the spotlight, then turned to the mirror. Her face still looked soft and youthful, sleep barely washed from her features, but she carefully applied light makeup—just a touch of foundation, a sweep of mascara, and a nude lip gloss. She let her hair fall naturally, brushing it until it gleamed, soft waves cascading down her back.

Her final touch was placing her Bible into her handbag, right next to her phone and lip balm. With a final breath, she stepped out of the room, ready.

The scent of fresh coffee hit her first. It was rich and inviting, the kind that wrapped around her senses and drew her toward the living room. As she rounded the corner, she spotted Nikolai sitting calmly on the couch, legs crossed, dark slacks tailored to perfection, a second coffee cup in his hand and a small paper bag of waffles laid neatly on the coffee table.

He looked up as she entered, and his gaze swept over her slowly. There was something reverent in his eyes, like she'd just walked out of a dream and made it real.

"You look beautiful," he said simply.

Elara flushed. "Thank you."

She glanced at the table. "When did you order these?"

"I had someone drop them off a few minutes ago," he replied, standing up. He gestured to the empty spot beside him. "Come, sit. Eat."

Elara hesitated for only a second before walking over and lowering herself into the seat beside him. The warmth of the coffee seeped into her hands as she wrapped her fingers around the cup, and the scent of the waffles—golden brown, buttered, and dusted with powdered sugar—made her stomach grumble softly.

They ate quietly, sharing small smiles, the silence between them not awkward but gentle, almost sacred. Elara took a sip of coffee, letting the warmth slide down her throat, and every now and then, she felt his eyes drift toward her.

By the time they were done, the waffles gone and only a trace of syrup left on the napkin, Nikolai stood up and offered her his hand.

"Ready?"

She nodded, gathering her bag. They walked outside together.

His black Maserati was parked just beside the curb, sleek and polished, a perfect reflection of its owner. Nikolai moved ahead and opened the passenger door for her with that same effortless charm. She stepped in, and he closed the door behind her with a soft click.

He moved around the front of the car, got in the driver's seat, and within seconds, the engine purred to life beneath them.

The drive was short—five minutes at most—but Elara spent each second conscious of how close they were, how easily silence settled between them like a comfortable blanket.

The church was a modest stone structure with tall arched windows and an old oak door, set between a line of trees. As Nikolai parked the car and they walked toward the entrance, Elara felt eyes on them. Couples greeted each other on the steps, exchanging warm smiles and greetings. And then there was them.

Nikolai, all sharp lines and quiet intensity, looked like he'd stepped out of a high-end magazine. And her, in her wine-colored dress, felt like she belonged somewhere between holy ground and a fairy tale.

The sermon was peaceful, the message simple and clear. Elara found comfort in the familiar rhythm of the pastor's voice, the warmth of the congregation, and the soft cadence of hymns echoing in the air. Beside her, Nikolai sat with a calm expression, watching the pastor, standing and sitting when needed, his hand occasionally brushing against hers.

She stole glances at him, wondering what he was thinking. Wondering what brought a man like him into a place like this.

After the final hymn and prayer, they stepped out into the sunlight again, the late morning breeze tousling Elara's hair. They walked quietly to the car, side by side, the silence speaking volumes.

Nikolai opened the passenger door for her again, and she stepped in with a soft smile.

The ride back to her apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that made her stomach flutter.

When he pulled into her building's lot and put the car in park, she turned to him.

"Thank you for coming with me," she said, voice soft.

He looked at her, something unreadable in his expression. "Thank you for inviting me."

There was a pause, the kind that stretched like an elastic band between them, building and tightening. Then she leaned in, and so did he.

The kiss was long, lingering—his hand lifting to gently cradle her cheek, hers resting on his knee. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was slow, intentional, almost reverent. When she finally pulled back, she was breathless.

"I'll see you soon," she whispered.

He nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll text you when I get home."

With a final glance, she stepped out of the car and disappeared into the apartment building, the wine-colored fabric of her dress catching the sunlight one last time.

Nikolai leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly.

Then his phone vibrated.

He reached for it without even looking and let out a low laugh when he read the message:

MOTHER: If you don't show up for Sunday lunch, I swear I'll beat the shit out of you. :-)

He chuckled under his breath. "She'll never change."

He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and started the engine again. As he backed out of the parking space and pulled into the quiet Sunday traffic, a small smile lingered on his lips.

Nikolai pulled up to the Volkov estate, the tires of his sleek black Maserati crunching over the gravel driveway as the sprawling mansion loomed before him like a monument to opulence and legacy. It was a familiar sight, yet it never failed to spark a peculiar blend of amusement and exasperation in him. The grand estate was a relic of old money and mafia bloodlines, with its iron-wrought balconies, towering white columns, and endless windows. The Volkov crest, a silver wolf etched into a black shield, was proudly displayed above the arched entrance.

He stepped out of the car, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt, and took in the warm Sunday air. Birds chirped in the distance, and the faint aroma of roasted garlic and spices wafted through the wind. That was his mother, without a doubt. Natalia Volkov didn't just cook—she created art. If you so much as suggested helping her, she might throw a pan at your head. Only he, for some reason, had earned the honor of being her sous-chef.

The heavy front doors were already ajar, as if expecting him. He stepped into the grand foyer, where the familiar chaos greeted him instantly.

"You were not cuter than me, Viktor! Look at that photo—I looked like a literal doll!" Anya's voice, shrill and filled with conviction, carried from the living room.

"Doll? You looked like a tomato with eyes. I, on the other hand, had golden curls and perfect skin," Viktor argued, waving around a photograph like it was evidence in court.

Nikolai paused, leaning against the doorframe, a smirk tugging at his lips. His younger siblings were at it again. Anya, was dressed in a band T-shirt and ripped jeans, holding an old baby album open in her lap. Viktor, lounged on the sofa with a self-satisfied grin.

"You both looked like potatoes," Nikolai called out as he walked in.

"Speak for yourself, old man," Viktor shot back, though his grin widened.

On the far side of the living room, their grandfather Mikhail sat stoically on a high-backed leather chair, his thick fingers clutching the day's newspaper. He didn't even glance up. The crinkle of paper was his only response.

Their grandmother, Viktoria, was settled in her usual spot, a plush armchair in front of the television, watching some dramatic Russian soap opera with a glass of cranberry juice—heavily spiked, of course.

Their father, Dimitri, stood near the grand window, his deep voice low as he spoke rapidly in Russian over the phone. He turned slightly, acknowledging Nikolai with a nod but didn't pause the conversation.

Nikolai made his way to the kitchen. It was warm, both from the oven and the heart of the woman who ruled it.

"There he is," Natalia said without looking up from the stove. She had a spatula in one hand and a ladle in the other, her blonde hair tied up in a messy bun. "Come here, my boy."

He walked over, and she pulled him into a quick side-hug, careful not to spill anything on him. Her cheek brushed his briefly before she was back to business.

"Mix the ingredients for the dessert. Only you don't screw it up like the rest of these useless children."

Nikolai chuckled and washed his hands before grabbing a mixing bowl and the array of ingredients she'd laid out with military precision.

"How are you? And how's this new girl of yours?" she asked, turning to peek at him.

"She's perfect," he said, voice softer than he meant it to be.

Natalia raised her brows, clearly impressed. She took a sip from her teacup and exhaled contentedly. He caught the sharp scent immediately—definitely more vodka than tea.

"I hope you don't scare her off with your brooding and mafia nonsense," she said, her eyes narrowing at him playfully.

"I'll try not to."

"Mmm." She eyed him skeptically but didn't press.

The food was ready not long after. Natalia barked orders to Viktor and Anya to set the table, and despite their complaints, they obeyed. Platters of food were carried into the formal dining room: roasted duck, beet salad, fresh-baked rye, dumplings, pickled vegetables, and the pièce de résistance—her honey cake, layered and decadent.

The family filed in, each taking their usual seats. Nikolai sat at the middle of the long mahogany table, flanked by Anya and Viktor. Mikhail folded his paper and joined them silently. Viktoria finally tore her gaze away from the TV, and Dimitri ended his call.

As everyone began eating, the usual conversation resumed. It was Viktoria who broke the silence with a sniff and a squint.

"Why do you smell like repentance and church, Nikolai?"

He groaned and dropped his fork. "Seriously?"

His mother's eyes lit up. "You went to church again? With the girl?"

He nodded, stuffing a dumpling into his mouth to avoid further interrogation.

"I want to meet the woman who managed to get you to church without being dragged by your ear," Natalia declared.

"Bewitched. That's the only explanation," Viktor said, mouth full.

A spoon flew through the air and smacked Viktor on the forehead. He yelped.

"Show some respect," Natalia scolded. "Maybe your brother's just all grown up now, trying to turn a new leaf."

Dimitri laughed loudly. "Well, that means the world must be ending."

Natalia smacked his arm. "Just because you were the devil incarnate doesn't mean my baby is like you."

"He's not like Dimitri," Mikhail said flatly, picking up a forkful of duck. "He's worse."

Laughter erupted around the table.

Nikolai leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with a small smile. There was nothing quite like a Volkov family lunch.

As the meal continued, they shared stories, reminisced, argued about politics, and made fun of each other in equal measure. Anya showed off her latest art project, Viktor complained about living out of a suitcase in Nikolai's penthouse, and Viktoria demanded someone bring her another drink.

Dessert was a hit, as always. Natalia proudly declared Nikolai her culinary heir, much to the others' groans of protest. The warm honey cake, layered with cream, melted in their mouths.

By the time lunch wound down, the sun had shifted in the sky, casting golden rays through the tall dining room windows. Plates were scraped clean, laughter lingered in the air, and a comfortable fatigue settled over the room.

Nikolai stood to help clear the table, but Natalia waved him off.

"Go and relax. You helped enough. I'll make Viktor and Anya do the rest."

"Child labor," Viktor muttered.

"Be grateful you're still fed," Natalia shot back.