Elira Volkov
The rules were never written down.
They didn't need to be.
They lived in the way my mother's voice sharpened when she spoke my name. In the way my father's eyes turned flat and distant when I entered a room. In the way silence was praised in me, while brilliance was celebrated in my sister.
I learned the rules before I learned how to read.
Rule one:
Speak only when spoken to. Keep your eyes on the floor.
That was where my worth belonged.
Rule two:
Never take attention away from Katerina.
She was the daughter meant to be admired. I was the one meant to disappear.
Rule three:
Never leave the mansion unless instructed.
Freedom was not a right. It was a reward I had never earned.
Punishment followed disobedience swiftly. Efficiently. Without remorse.
After a while, pain stopped feeling shocking. It became familiar. Predictable. Almost routine.
By the time I understood fear, it had already shaped me.
I stood by the window of my bedroom, staring out at the frozen grounds of the Volkov estate. Snow coated the iron gates, the trees, the statues my father had imported from Europe to remind the world that he was powerful enough to decorate with stone and blood.
Today mattered.
That much had been made clear.
My mother had entered my room the night before with instructions delivered like a sentence. No makeup. No jewelry. Nothing fitted. My hair brushed and left loose, as though effort itself might be mistaken for ambition.
"Katerina's future husband is coming," she'd said. "You will not interfere."
As if I ever could.
Katerina Volkov was perfection shaped into flesh. Golden-haired, graceful, adored. She laughed easily, spoke beautifully, existed loudly. People leaned toward her without realizing it, as though gravity itself favored her.
I had watched my parents dote on her while I learned how to make myself smaller. How to vanish into corners. How to breathe quietly enough not to be noticed.
I used to hate her for it.
Now, the jealousy sat inside me like old bruises—tender only when pressed.
Everything truly changed the year my brother died.
Mikhail was sixteen when he pushed me behind him during an ambush. I was four. Small. Confused. Alive.
Every year since, my father reminded me of that cost.
On Mikhail's birthday, I was locked away and beaten for surviving him. Each year the punishment grew worse, as if grief fermented into something violent and unmanageable.
This year, the bruises had lasted weeks.
A knock at my door snapped me back.
Sharp. Commanding.
I opened it immediately.
My mother stepped inside, her presence filling the room with cold authority. I dropped my gaze at once.
"Matteo De Luca," she said. "The Italian mafia leader. He will arrive this evening."
My stomach tightened.
"He is here to choose a bride for an alliance," she continued, circling me slowly. "Although we all know who he will choose."
Her fingers caught my collar suddenly, yanking my head up.
"If you speak without permission," she whispered, eyes burning into mine, "I will have you locked beneath this house where no one will ever hear you again."
She released me with a shove.
I hit the floor.
The door slammed shut.
I stayed there long after she left, tears sliding silently down my face, because crying aloud had consequences.
Why did I have to be there at all…
if I was never meant to be chosen?