Page 15 of Darkest Oblivion
Her navy dress was elegant but practical, her pearls glinting against the morning light.
She smiled for me, but her eyes betrayed the strain of the last two weeks, carrying the same worry I’d seen etched into my father’s face.
Their love wrapped around me like a blanket, fragile but fierce, and for a fleeting second, I wanted to let myself sink into it. To pretend I was just a daughter and a granddaughter on her birthday, not a pawn in a brutal game of debts and bloodlines.
“Come, Penelope, let’s celebrate you,” my mother urged, her voice steady, but the tiny tremor beneath it betrayed everything she tried to hide.
I slipped from bed, my silk pajamas brushing against my skin, my bare feet silent against the marble floor as I followed them down the hall.
The living room was a burst of joy against the dread that had haunted me: pink and gold streamers cascading from the chandelier, a banner readingHappy 25th, Penelope!catching the morning light.
A three-tiered cake gleamed on a polished table, its white frosting swirled into roses, the scent of buttercream filling the air.
Gift boxes wrapped in silver paper were stacked neatly beside it, and in the corner, a hired quartet played something soft and melodic, their notes curling into the air like fragile threads of peace.
My chest tightened—not from asthma this time, but from the bittersweet ache of it all.
My family wanted so badly to protect me, to give me joy. But the shadow of Dmitri Volkov lingered, uninvited, over every ribbon, every balloon, every note of music.
Emotion swelled in my chest, tears pricking as I folded myself into my mother’s arms.
Her perfume—lavender, soft and familiar—grounded me, reminding me of every safe moment in a world that was anything but. “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered, my voice thick.
Then I turned to Nonna, pulling her close.
Her body was frail, yet her embrace held the strength of generations, steady and unshakable. “And you, Nonna. This is perfect.”
“Don’t cry, tesoro,” she murmured, cupping my cheek with a trembling hand. “Today is for joy.”
My father stepped into the room, silver hair perfectly combed, his suit immaculate—but his eyes betrayed him. Heavy. Haunted.
Guilt pressed into the corners of his expression, a weight even his crisp attire couldn’t disguise.
I hugged him quickly, feeling the tension coil through his shoulders, and whispered, “I’ll be back for the party, Papa. There’s something I need to do first.”
Because today wasn’t just my birthday. Today was Dmitri Volkov’s wedding—or so I believed.
A week ago, the invitation to Dmitri’s wedding had arrived—thick paper, gold script, as if it had been crafted to mock me.
I had refused him, I had sworn I’d never belong to him or his brothers. My mother had stood by me, fierce in her support. And yet... curiosity gnawed at me.
Who had he chosen to marry? After claiming Penelope is mine not once but twice, whose name would he tie to his in that church?
Jealousy—sharp, unwelcome—cut through me, tethered not to the monster who threatened to chain me in Italy, but to the boy I’d once loved.
The boy with sunlit laughter, who’d stolen cupcakes and teased me about marrying him at twenty-five.
My heart twisted.
Back then, I’d made the promise like any foolish child—believing that by twenty-five I’d be finished with school, building a career, living freely. And for a while, I was. I graduated fromNYU, started consulting for my own clients. I was free. I was done.
What I didn’t know was that Dmitri would come back. That he would remember. That the words I’d spoken as a girl would bind me as a woman. And still, I had to see his bride—with my own eyes. To understand why he’d threatened to claim me... only to let me go.
“Penelope, cut the cake before you leave,” my mother urged, guiding me to the table. Her smile was warm, but her eyes betrayed strain.
“Stay a little, cara,” Nonna coaxed, her voice gentle, her eyes sparkling. “This day is yours—don’t hurry off to that man’s chaos.”
I forced a smile. “Don’t worry, Mom, Nonna. I won’t stay long. But if I skip Dmitri’s wedding, he might take it as a personal vendetta.” My words were light, but the fear beneath them was sharp. “And we all know storms like him don’t forgive insults.”
