Page 14 of Vendetta Crown

There's a gentle knock at my door, but I can't find the strength to answer. After a moment, the door opens.

A slender woman steps in, and I recognize her instantly as Potyomkin's young wife. In the soft morning light, without her husband's looming presence, she looks different. Vibrant and alive in a way I hadn't noticed at my wedding.

"Good morning, I am Vera Tikhonovna Potyomkin," she introduces herself, her voice carrying a musical lilt. "I hope you slept well?"

"As well as I could," I manage, my throat still raw. "Given the circumstances."

She nods, understanding in her eyes as she approaches the bed. "Please forgive my Slava for his delay in coming to your aid. When he received your message, he wasn't sure it was true." Her gaze flickers to my bruised cheek. "But after he heard about the death of Ruslan Vitalyevich, he knew he needed to act."

"He's not dead." The words burst from me with unexpected force.

I can't accept it. I won't.

Vera's expression softens with pity. She sits beside me, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. Her wedding ring catches the light. It's massive and ornate.

And it looks impossibly heavy on her delicate finger.

"My Ruslan is not dead," I say again, my voice harsher than before.

"Aurora Markovna," she begins gently. "I know it's a difficult thing to accept. But you must accept it. Please. It's for your own good."

I study her face. She can't be older than twenty-three, with eyes that have seen too much. The gratitude I felt toward Potyomkin for saving me curdles in my stomach. What kind of man marries a girl young enough to be his daughter?

The same kind who keeps a bedroom ready for "guests" in his penthouse, I suppose.

"How long have you been married to your husband?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Vera blinks, surprised by my change of subject. "Four years this winter."

Whatever gratitude that might've remained in me for Potyomkin vanishes in an instant.

Vera's eyes soften with something like understanding as she watches me.

"I know what you're thinking," she says quietly. "But Slava did what he did to protect me. That is just the way things are in this world."

"It shouldn't be." The words burn in my throat.

I think about Mikayla, about Stella and Sofia. About Tamara who was forced to marry Lev. About Vera who probably never had a chance to be a girl before she was forced to be a woman.

"No, it shouldn't." Vera folds her hands neatly in her lap, the precise movement reminding me so much of Mikayla. "But not everyone can be as lucky as you were."

"Lucky?"

"The way Ruslan Vitalyevich looked at you on the day of your wedding," Vera continues, her voice wistful. "Was the way I wish my Slava had looked at me on the day of mine."

My wedding…

The memory of Ruslan standing tall at the altar, his eyes softening when they found mine. The crown placed on my head. The vows we exchanged. The kiss that felt so real.

I blink back tears, but one escapes down my cheek anyway.

"Slava wants to talk to you," Vera says softly. "You should get dressed."

She walks to a nearby closet and slides it open to reveal a panoply of clothes.

"It's not fair," I whisper, more to myself than to her.

Vera turns, something fierce flickering in her eyes for just a moment.

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