It had all happened so fast.

The gold bangles still clinked coldly on Raeema’s wrists, her maroon veil carefully placed on the side table. In this mansion carved out of old European decadence and quiet Russian control, she sat on the edge of a bed she wasn’t sure she wanted to share.

Her new husband—Nikolai Mirsolov—had barely looked her in the eye during the ceremony. He was kind, soft-spoken, never once raised his voice or even showed a flash of temper. But something about him was off. Too composed. Too… distant.

The marriage hadn’t been her idea. Not completely. It was arranged, but she hadn’t fought it like the others. Maybe it was the promise of peace, of someone outside the chaos of her own family. Nikolai had seemed—safe. Until now.

—————————

It started with the ring.

A simple gold band. She noticed it when he reached for a file on his desk one morning. She’d been married to him for three weeks, and she never saw that ring before. It wasn’t hers.

“Whose ring is that?” Raeema asked, voice casual, but her heart already knew it wasn’t a good answer coming.

Nikolai froze. Just slightly. A second too long.

He closed the file. Straightened his cuff. “I should’ve told you earlier.”

Her skin chilled. “Told me what?”

“There is someone,” he said. “Her name is Sofia. She’s my brother’s widow.”

Her lips parted but no words came out.

“She needed protection. After Dimitri died, the family wouldn’t allow her to remarry outside. Too many secrets. Too many enemies. She was too vulnerable. So they arranged it—said if I married her, it would keep her safe. It was never… it wasn’t about love.”

“And you said yes?” she whispered.

He looked up at her, eyes sharp with something unreadable. “I say yes to things that keep people alive, Raeema. That’s what we do in this family.”

A beat of silence.

“And me?” Her voice cracked. “Was I another decision you made to keep someone alive?”

He looked pained. Not guilty. Just… worn.

“No,” he said. “You were the first thing I said yes to for myself. I didn’t want this to be your burden.”

“But it is,” she breathed. “You’re married. To someone else.”

“She’s not my wife in the way you are.”

You laughed then—small and bitter. “Tell her that.”

He didn’t deny it.

⸻

Later that night, she saw Sofia for the first time.

Tall, elegant, with frost-blue eyes and sorrow etched into her bones. She looked at you the way a ghost looks at the living—half with envy, half with rage.

And it was understood.

Sofia wanted everything: the name, the care, the title—but also the man.

And you had been married into a house where women were protected like glass sculptures. Polished. Preserved. Possessed. But never truly loved.

⸻

When Raeema closed the bedroom door behind her that night, Nikolai was sitting by the window, still in his suit, the city lights casting long shadows over his face.

“Am I allowed to be angry?” she asked, not gently.

He didn’t look at her. “Yes.”

“Am I allowed to leave?”

Silence.

“Yes,” he said again. But this time, there was something breaking in his voice.

And that’s when she realized—

He didn’t know how to love. Not yet. Maybe never.

But he wanted to. And somehow, that made everything worse.