Volkov Mansion – Late Evening
The mansion was too quiet.
Bella sat curled on the edge of a cream-colored couch in the expansive living room. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire as it licked the logs in the fireplace. The flames danced and cast flickering shadows across the ornate ceilings and the edges of grand, gold-framed paintings. It was a beautiful space—regal, timeless, and serene.
But it felt more like a mausoleum than a home.
Three days. That's how long it had been since Alex had spoken to her. Not a word. Not a glance filled with warmth. Just empty silence and passing shadows. They shared a house, a marriage on paper, yet felt like ghosts haunting separate lives.
At first, she had tried to convince herself it was work. Alex Volkov was a powerful man. Cold. Calculated. Busy. He had enemies to manage, empires to run. But even that excuse couldn't fill the void of being completely ignored by the man whose ring she wore.
She glanced at the antique clock on the wall. It was past ten. She hadn't eaten. Not because she forgot, but because the heavy pit of unease in her stomach made food feel unnecessary. The silence between them was no longer an absence of noise—it was a presence in itself, a monster that sat beside her, breathing down her neck.
She had only asked him a question.
Do you always push people away like this?
It hadn't been cruel. It hadn't been emotional. Just honest. But the look in his eyes that night had been like a slap.
Don't mistake this arrangement for something it's not.
He had walked away after that. Left her sitting there like discarded glass, sharp and breakable all at once.
Bella pulled her sweater tighter around her. The fire no longer gave comfort. She rose to her feet, slow and reluctant, her bare footsteps nearly silent against the marble floor. Her body moved before her mind could stop her—down the hallway, toward his study.
Maybe she wanted a fight. Maybe she just wanted him to see her, acknowledge her. Even a cruel word was better than being invisible.
As she approached the study door, she heard his voice.
Yes. I'll handle her. She's not a problem.
She froze.
Her heart thudded once, then again, harder. Was he talking about her? Who else could he mean?
The rational part of her wanted to step back, to walk away, but curiosity clashed violently with fear.
There was a pause. The call ended with a sigh—a heavy, tired exhale that sounded far too human to belong to the man who had become ice.
Slowly, she pushed the door open just enough to peer in.
Alex stood by the tall window, city lights glowing behind him like a halo of fractured stars. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his suit jacket tossed carelessly over the back of a leather chair. He didn't look like a ruthless billionaire. He looked... tired. Haunted.
She knocked, a soft sound against the tension in the room.
He turned sharply, eyes narrowing at the sight of her. "What is it?"
Her breath caught at his tone, but she stepped in anyway. "I wanted to talk."
He said nothing.
"You've been avoiding me," she said, voice even.
"I've been working."
She shook her head. "No. You've been avoiding me. Don't lie."
"You're overstepping."
"No. I'm finally speaking."
He crossed his arms, face impassive. "What do you want from me, Bella? This was never meant to be emotional."
"I know what this was," she said, her voice tight with restraint. "A contract. A business deal. I agreed to it. But that doesn't mean I agreed to be treated like I don't exist."
His jaw flexed. Still, he said nothing.
"I gave up my job. My independence. My entire life to play your perfect little wife. And for what? To be ignored like a piece of art you got bored of?"
Something flickered in his eyes, but it vanished just as fast.
"I don't expect romance," she added, voice quieter now. "But I thought I'd at least be treated like I matter."
He looked away, tension radiating off him like heat from the fire. "You don't understand."
"Then help me understand, Alex."
Silence again. It stretched long enough for her to think he wouldn't answer.
Then he said quietly, "I don't do emotions."
Bella stared. Of all the answers, that was not the one she expected.
He turned back toward her, his face hard but his eyes unreadable. "I spent most of my life learning how not to feel. It's how I survive. It's how I protect what's mine."
"And I'm not yours?" she asked.
He hesitated. "You're the exception. And that's the problem."
She blinked, stunned. "What?"
"I chose this arrangement because it was supposed to be simple. No feelings. No mess. But then you..."
He trailed off.
"Then I what?" she whispered.
"You made it complicated."
His words were soft, but they hit like thunder. She had never seen him like this—off-balance, almost... human.
"You say you don't feel, but I see it," she said. "The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. The way you clench your fists like you're holding back everything. So stop pretending."
He looked down. His next words were almost a whisper. "Real feelings get people hurt. I've lost too much already."
"So you'd rather lose what's right in front of you?"
He didn't answer.
Bella took a slow step forward. "I'm not asking for love you can't give. I'm asking for honesty. For something real."
"I don't know how to give that," he admitted.
"Then learn."
He lifted his eyes to hers, and for once, she saw no mask. No armor. Just a man who had built his world on walls and didn't know how to live without them.
"If being with me is such a burden," she said, voice thick with emotion, "then let me go."
His expression darkened—not with anger, but something far more raw. "I can't."
"Then figure out how to be better."
She turned to leave, her steps echoing in the cold room. At the door, she hesitated just long enough to say, "Because if you keep pushing me away, there won't be anything left for you to hold onto."
And then she was gone.
The study was silent again. But the fire no longer warmed him.
And for the first time in years, Alex Volkov wasn't sure his cold heart could keep him safe anymore.