The silence in the room felt suffocating.
Rose sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her fingers clutched tightly around the hem of the off shoulder t shirt she was wearing. The room was dim, the soft golden hue from the early afternoon sun leaking through the drawn curtains like threads of light trying to unravel the darkness wrapped around her.
She didn't want to go outside. She didn't want to bump into Nikolai. Not after what had happened.
He had seen her.
Not just seen her physically—but he had seen her. The raw, shattered, unmasked version of her. And she had let him. That thought alone made her stomach twist. She felt exposed, transparent. Weak.
Vulnerability was something she had always kept buried, locked deep behind sarcasm and a sharp tongue. It was her shield. Her fortress. Her armor forged in the fires of pain, loneliness, and endless nights spent convincing herself she could survive anything. At the orphanage, she had been trampled on—humiliated and degraded by those who were supposed to care. She never cried in front of them. She never showed weakness.
Even with Salvatore, despite everything he put her through, she had never cracked. Not like that. Not until now.
The only person who had ever seen her cry was Alejandro.
Alejandro had been her sanctuary. Her reminder that the world hadn't completely turned its back on her. She used to go to him after the worst days—after Salvatore's punishments, locking her in a dark room, sex as punishment, and a comstant reminder of how he pulled her out of that hell hole called an orphanage. He never judged her. He didn't offer empty words. He just held her, listened to her silent sobs, and reminded her that what was happening to her wasn't okay.
And now?
Now Nikolai had witnessed the mess buried beneath the surface. She didn't know him well enough to gauge what he'd do with that knowledge. Would he use it against her? Would he pity her? The latter scared her more.
Pity felt worse than cruelty. It was like being wrapped in wet cloth—unwanted and suffocating. Pity meant someone looked at her like a helpless child. It meant they saw her as someone in need of saving. And she didn't believe she could be saved. Not anymore.
She had cried enough. Screamed and begged the heavens enough—at the orphanage, in the cold dark corridors of Salvatore's mansion. But no one ever came. No one ever saved her. Eventually, she'd stopped hoping.
She got up slowly, moving to the window. The city glistened outside, unaware of her turmoil. As her eyes drifted over the skyline, a memory crept into her mind—uninvited, yet vividly alive.
It was her seventeenth birthday.
She had woken up expecting nothing, as usual. The orphanage never celebrated her birthdays. They had always turned into a cruel spectacle of jokes, mockery, and punishments. She had grown to hate the day, to fear it. But that year, she wasn't in the orphanage anymore.
That year, Salvatore had decided to play the role of a loving guardian.
He threw her a party.
A huge one. Lavish. Costly. The kind of party that looked picture-perfect on the outside. He invited dozens of people from his world—cold men in tailored suits, women with dead eyes behind layers of makeup. Strangers.
And when they jumped out and yelled, "Surprise!"—Rose had panicked.
Her feet moved before her brain caught up. She turned and ran barefoot, the sound of her own breath louder than the cheers behind her. She had thought it was some kind of twisted punishment. A trap. Her mind could not comprehend kindness, not from him.
She ran until her legs gave out, until her soles bled, and she collapsed on a park bench, tucked away beneath a broken lamppost. There, she had cried like she hadn't in years.
Alejandro found her hours later.
He didn't say anything at first. He sat next to her, slouched low, his arm lazily draped around her shoulders.
"I hate my birthday too," he said.
That was the day she learned about his mother—how she died on his tenth birthday. Since then, he had refused to celebrate. Burned every cake the maids brought him. Destroyed every party attempt.
They had bonded over that shared hatred.
"I guess we hate two things together," she had whispered. "Birthdays and Salvatore."
When they finally returned to the mansion, Salvatore was furious. Humiliated, he claimed. He'd told her she embarrassed him. That he tried to do something nice and she spat on it.
He vowed never to throw her another party.
And he never did. Thank God.
Snapping back to the present, Rose looked down at her hands. They weren't shaking anymore. Her breathing had steadied. But another problem was gnawing at her: hunger.
Her stomach growled aggressively.
She groaned.
If facing Nikolai was the price she had to pay for breakfast, so be it. She'd wrap herself in her sarcasm like a cloak and deflect whatever questions he dared ask.
She moved to the door and peeked out like she was crossing a battlefield. The hallway was quiet. No sound of footsteps. No eerie presence of the tall, brooding Russian.
With slow, cautious steps, she made her way to the kitchen. The pristine black-marble counters reflected the faint sunlight, and everything was just as she had left it—clean, cold, perfect.
He wasn't there.
She nearly squealed.
She was alone. In this painfully expensive penthouse. And he wasn't looming in the corner with his unreadable expressions and sharp questions.
She made her way to the fridge, opened it, and—
A note.
Neat handwriting. Short. To the point.
She rolled her eyes. "Vampire brooding bastard," she muttered, then chuckled.
This was perfect. Utterly perfect. She picked up the kitchen telephone and pressed the number 5.
A few seconds passed.
"Sir?" a male voice answered, formal and alert.
She cleared her throat dramatically. "Uhm, this is not your emotionally constipated sir. It is I, Rose Woods, future empress of this cold penthouse, and I would like to request a royal breakfast—the best kind. With waffles. Lots of waffles. And syrup. And strawberries. And maybe a little whipped cream if you're feeling generous. You have ten minutes. Chop-chop."
There was a pause.
Then, "Uh…yes. Right away."
She grinned, tossing the phone back on the receiver like she owned the place.
"God, this is fun," she whispered to herself.
For a few minutes, she danced around the kitchen barefoot, raiding the cupboards for coffee like she was raiding a treasure chest.
Maybe Nikolai wouldn't return for a month.
Or ever.
She liked the silence when it was just hers. She liked being in control.
She settled on one of the bar stools, drumming her fingers on the marble as she stared out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere out there, the world still turned, unaware of the storm brewing within these walls.