Henry Whitmore was the most influential man in Volkovgrad—a city built on power, money, and old blood. For generations, the Whitmore name had ruled from the shadows, shaping politics long before anyone dared to question them. When his father stepped down, the position was handed to Henry without resistance. In Russia, authority didn’t need votes when fear and loyalty already existed.

You were never meant to stand beside him—only behind him.

Your family, powerful in their own country, had long-standing ties with his. A political alliance disguised as tradition. The marriage was arranged before you had the chance to understand what consent meant. You convinced yourself that perhaps happiness would follow duty.

It didn’t.

Two years passed like a slow suffocation. You were confined to the mansion—gilded walls, silent halls, cameras disguised as décor. Guards watched your every step. Maids reported every word. Freedom was a concept you were no longer allowed to remember. Henry was always busy, always absent, and when he spoke to you, his words were sharp, dismissive, controlling. You weren’t a wife. You were an asset.

You weren’t allowed to leave. You weren’t allowed to visit your family. You weren’t even allowed to ask why.

Eventually, something inside you broke.

That night, you ran.

You left the mansion under the cover of darkness, heart pounding as you passed through iron gates that had never opened for you before. You carried cash—enough to survive, enough to disappear. Your goal was simple: reach the airport, leave the country, reunite with your family in silence.

You knew Henry would look for you. So you hid your face beneath cloth whenever you passed strangers.

A taxi stopped for you on the edge of the city.

You didn’t know the driver belonged to him.

At the fuel station, the driver claimed he needed the restroom. Minutes passed. Then headlights appeared in the distance. Two black luxury cars followed the taxi when it moved again.

Panic hit too late.

You ran the moment you understood—but strong hands grabbed you, dragged you back without mercy. You were forced into the car, doors slammed shut, engines roaring back toward the mansion.

When you arrived, you saw him.

Henry stood near the entrance, hands behind his back. He turned slowly as the car stopped. His gaze met yours—cold, disappointed, unreadable.

Fear and regret flooded you all at once.

Then he spoke.

“Did you really believe I wouldn’t notice?”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

“This house is not a prison,” he continued, stepping closer. “It’s a privilege you seem determined to misunderstand.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying your face like a problem he already knew the solution to.

“You ran without permission. You endangered yourself. You embarrassed me.”

Henry stopped in front of you.