CHAPTER 23

The quiet clinking of cutlery on ceramic was the only sound in the kitchen as they ate. The food was perfect, just like everything Nikolai made for her—tender, flavorful, served with care. But Elara barely tasted it. Her stomach was in knots, each bite harder to swallow than the last. Across the island counter, Nikolai watched her with those familiar storm-grey eyes, concern etched deeply into his face.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked, his voice gentle as he set his own fork down. "If you're still not feeling well, I can get something for you. Painkillers, vitamins… whatever you need."

Elara offered him a small, brittle smile and shook her head. "No, I'm okay. Really. There's no need to worry."

He didn't look convinced, but nodded, reaching across the counter to brush his knuckles softly along the back of her hand. "Alright. But tell me if anything changes."

She nodded silently, then stared down at her plate.

It was now or never.

She took a deep breath, her hand trembling as she set her fork aside. "Nikolai," she said softly, barely above a whisper. "I… I need to talk to you."

He perked up instantly, his brows pulling together as he gave her his full attention. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Talk to me. I'm all ears."

Her throat burned. Her tongue felt like it was made of lead. But she'd already chosen this path. She had to walk it.

"I think…" she began, then paused to gather herself. "I think we should end things."

The words landed like a bomb.

A loud metallic clink echoed through the kitchen as his fork fell from his fingers and hit the plate. He stared at her in stunned silence, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he tried to process what she'd just said.

"What?" he breathed out.

Her heart screamed. But she forced herself to repeat it.

"I think we should break up."

A stillness settled over the room, thick and suffocating. It was like all the warmth had been sucked out, leaving behind only shock and confusion.

He leaned forward, palms braced on the counter, his voice hoarse. "Why? Elara, we're good. We've been happy. What changed? Did I say something? Did I do something? Did I… did I hurt you last night?"

She shook her head immediately, her hands knotting in her lap.

"No," she said quickly. "No, Nikolai. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing. You've been…" Her voice cracked. "You've been perfect. Patient, kind, gentle… You're everything anyone could ask for."

"Then why?" he asked, his voice rising, tinged with desperation now. "Why the hell do you want to leave me if I've done everything right?"

She closed her eyes. Just one lie. One lie to protect herself. To protect him, too. If he hated her, maybe he'd let her go.

"I… I made a mistake," she said. Her voice shook. "I've been seeing someone else. I didn't mean for it to happen, but it did. And I think… I think I like him more."

There was no reaction for a beat.

Then his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped. His eyes turned cold—not cruel, but stunned. Devastated.

"Say that again."

"I'm seeing someone else."

Silence.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are," he snapped. "You're lying to me, Elara. There's no way you're with someone else."

"You don't know that."

"I do," he growled, pushing away from the counter. "I know you. I know how you look at me. I know how you feel when I touch you, when I kiss you, when I hold you. You love me."

"You're wrong."

"Bullshit," he hissed. "If you were cheating, I'd have known. You don't lie well. Not to me. So try again. What's really going on?"

She stood abruptly, backing away from her chair. Her whole body trembled.

"Why won't you believe me?" she cried. "Why can't you just accept it?"

"Because you're not a coward," he said, voice suddenly quieter. "You don't just run away from something this real. Unless you're scared. And not of me. Of something else."

He stepped closer, cautiously, watching her every move like she was a frightened bird on the verge of flight.

"Elara," he said, more softly now. "Tell me what happened. Tell me the truth."

She turned her face away, unable to answer. The truth sat like a rock in her throat.

He exhaled, long and heavy.

"You didn't cheat," he said again. "You're not with anyone else. And I won't let you lie to me just to make it easier to walk away."

Her hands trembled at her sides. "I don't have to convince you."

"You're right," he said. "You don't. But I'm not going to let you go unless you look me in the eye and give me a reason I can believe."

She took a shaky breath, then moved to step past him, needing to escape—this room, this man, this impossible conversation.

But before she could reach the hallway, his hand caught her wrist—not rough, not forceful, but firm. Enough to stop her.

"Elara," he said, voice thick with pain. "Look me in the eye."

She didn't.

"Tell me," he continued, "tell me that you don't love me. Tell me I was just a fling. That you were just playing me. Say it."

Her lips trembled. She looked anywhere but at him.

He released a breath. "Exactly."

Still holding her wrist gently, he took a step closer. His voice dropped to a near whisper, like he was afraid it might break him to say it out loud.

"Until you give me a reason that isn't a lie… until you stop running from whatever it is that scared you—you can forget about walking out that door."

Elara's breath hitched.

She was trapped between the truth and a lie. Between love and fear. Between the man she adored—and the truth about who he really was.

And Nikolai… Nikolai wasn't letting her go without a fight.

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Nikolai Volkov had survived bullets ripping through his flesh, the searing bite of knives, the sting of betrayal by men he once called brothers. He had been hunted, poisoned, tortured, and caged in the cruelest of ways—each experience forging him into the steel-hearted man he was today. Pain, death, and chaos were his old friends, companions of the life he was born into. There was little left in this world that could shake him. He had grown used to danger, thrived in it even, but the moment Elara opened her mouth and said those words—that she wanted to break up—he felt his soul rip from his chest.

And then she told him she'd cheated.

That lie. That clumsy, desperate lie.

It wasn't just the words—it was how she said them. The hesitation, the tremor in her voice, the way she couldn't meet his gaze. It was a performance, and not a good one. But Nikolai didn't need to be a lie detector to see it. He knew she was lying—because above all else, he knew her. She loved him. It wasn't just a theory, it was written in the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention, in the softness of her touch when she brushed his hair back from his eyes, in how she clung to him at night like he was the only safe place in the world. And he trusted her—not because he was naïve—but because Elara wasn't the kind of woman who would fake an entire relationship just to hurt him.

But there was something else. Something more practical, more precise.

He was Nikolai fucking Volkov.

It was second nature to know everything about the people who entered his life. Especially the woman he was falling for. When he'd first started feeling something more than physical for Elara, he had done what he always did—background checks, quiet surveillance, digital footprints, financial records, distant monitoring. Not to control her, but to protect her. To protect them.

So no, she hadn't been seeing someone else. He would have known. His people would have reported it the second it happened. And yet she stood there, looking him in the eye, and lied.

Which left only one conclusion.

She knew.

Somehow, in the hours since breakfast, she had found out. Maybe she saw something online, maybe she overheard something. Or maybe—God forbid—she went digging.

The shift had been so abrupt. They had woken up wrapped in each other's arms, her laughter echoing in the shower, her kiss on his neck before she slipped out to check her phone. Everything had been perfect—until it wasn't.

That was when she changed.

Nikolai leaned back against the marble counter, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. His mind replayed every interaction from the day, every shift in her tone, every averted gaze. She had started shaking. Her eyes were red. And now she wanted out.

No. No.

She had found out.

His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding as a storm churned behind his eyes. So that was it. The truth about him—the truth about his family. She must've found out about Mikhail, about the Volkov Bratva. About the blood on their hands, about the money that built the skyscrapers and bought the suits and paid for the quiet dinners he made for her.

He inhaled slowly, forcing the rage back down into the pit of his stomach. Not rage at her. No, never her.

Fear. She was afraid. Of him.

Who wouldn't be?

He couldn't even blame her.

But still… it hurt. God, it burned. To know that the one person who made him feel human, the one person who saw him outside of the name, the reputation, the legacy—was now trying to run from him. He had never felt powerless like this before. Not even when he'd been tied to a chair in Berlin with a gun pressed to his throat.

He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the growing tide of emotion in his chest.

She hadn't screamed. She hadn't confronted him. She hadn't asked questions.

She'd just tried to leave.

It confirmed everything.

The possessive part of him stirred like a beast in his chest. It growled that he should lock the doors. Trap her in the penthouse. If she was afraid, then maybe she was safer under lock and key, wrapped in silk and surrounded by security. If she wanted to run, then he wouldn't let her get the chance.

But the rational part of him—the part she brought out in him—urged caution. He couldn't make her a prisoner, not when her heart had been freely given to him just days ago. No, he had to talk to her. Really talk. Not force. Not intimidate. Not manipulate.

He had to understand.

Because if she truly found out the truth about who he was… about what his name meant…

Then he had a real problem.

He needed to confirm it. Gently, if he could. Directly, if he must.

And if she asked him to choose—between her and the Bratva?

His fists clenched again.

That was the one thing he wasn't ready for. Because he wouldn't choose.

He wanted both.

He needed both.

And come hell or high water… he was going to find a way to have both.

Even if it meant turning the world upside down.