Before long, even the hospital staff began to notice.
One afternoon, while I was in the small pantry rinsing fruit for Evelyn, two nurses stood nearby, their voices lowered but not enough.
“Oh my god… that’s his wife? For real?”
“Yeah. They’ve been married for years, apparently. But it’s obvious he’s in love with the other woman.”
The younger nurse peeked toward the ward. “She’s so… composed. I don’t get how she does it.”
The older one let out a quiet sigh, the kind people make when they’re watching something painful they can’t stop. “You don’t understand. That’s love.”
“Huh?”
“She’s caring for the woman her husband loves. Not because she has to. Not because of pride. But because… somewhere inside, she still hopes he’ll turn around and see her. Even once.” Her voice softened. “That kind of love doesn’t scream. It just bleeds quietly. And it’s the most tragic kind there is.”
Outside the pantry, I heard footsteps slow near the nurses’ station.
Viktor.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I could feel his eyes on me like a weight pressed between my shoulders.
---
The day Evelyn was discharged, Viktor came home only briefly. He tossed his keys onto the counter and looked at me like I was something spoiled.
“I’m taking Evelyn out of town for a while,” he said bluntly. “Don’t contact me unless someone’s dead.”
I nodded. “Alright.”
He never waited for a response.
I watched from the doorway as he helped her into the car, his palm resting lightly at her lower back, his coat settling over her shoulders. The door shut, the engine started, and soon the car vanished down the road—taking their laughter with it.
The house fell silent.
The next morning, I began packing.
I folded my clothes carefully, one piece at a time. No rush. No tears. My hands didn’t shake. My chest felt oddly still, like something inside me had finally gone quiet.
Then my phone lit up.
Evelyn.
My body stiffened.
And then the photos came.
Not just a few. Dozens.
They flooded my screen one after another—carefully chosen, deliberately cruel.
Evelyn sitting on Viktor’s lap at a vineyard in Tuscany, laughing as he kissed the side of her neck.
Evelyn tangled in white silk sheets, her back arched, one of his shirts draped loosely over her bare legs.
Evelyn standing before a mirror, Viktor’s arm wrapped around her waist as they took a photo together—his phone in one hand, hers in the other.
Evelyn holding his hand as he fastened a bracelet around her wrist.
My bracelet.
The one Mrs. Volkov had given me.
The final image was a close-up: her lips pressed against his bare chest.
Underneath it, soft pink text appeared like a knife dressed in ribbons:
“See, Isadora? On paper, he may be your husband… but never in bed. You’re such a pathetic parasite.”
My thumb hovered over the screen.
I didn’t delete anything.
I simply let the images remain and smiled—a thin, bitter curve of the lips.
---
Then came the birthday banquet for the Volkov patriarch.
Viktor didn’t return. He didn’t even bother to send a word.
So I went alone.
I wore a simple black dress—high neckline, long sleeves. Enough coverage to hide bruises beneath layers of makeup and whispered prayers. I pulled my hair into a tight low bun and walked in as if I belonged there.
The ballroom shimmered with gold and crystal. Marble floors reflected chandeliers like constellations. Guests floated through the room wrapped in couture, antiques glittering at their throats, carrying the effortless arrogance of families who had never known want.
The whispers began the moment I stepped inside.
But the first person to truly see me was Grandmother Signe Volkov.
She sat at the head of the table, spine straight despite her age, eyes sharp behind diamond-rimmed glasses. The smile on her lips vanished the instant her gaze locked onto me.
“Where is Viktor?”
Her tone was even. Controlled. The kind that stripped men of their confidence and left them silent.
I lowered my head. “He had urgent matters overseas…”
She laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Urgent, is that what he called it?” She reached for her wine—
And then the butler rushed in, pale, trembling, interrupting the moment.
He said nothing. Just placed a tablet in her hands.
“Viktor Volkov and Evelyn Beaumont photographed kissing in Tuscany.”
The headline screamed words like “romantic escape,” “secret affair,” “Volkov heir in love,” “future bride?”
The image beneath was worse.
Viktor wasn’t merely kissing her. He looked reverent—his palm cradling her face, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together like a still from some grand love story.
Signe’s wine glass shattered against the marble floor.
“Isadora,” she said tightly. “Come with me. Now.”
She stood, turned, and walked toward the west corridor without another glance. I followed, aware of every silent eye at the table watching us go.
She didn’t speak until we entered the ancestral chamber.
Dark wood. Faded oil portraits. Old lamps that always smelled faintly of iron and age.
She shut the door.
Locked it.
Then she turned and struck me across the face with enough force to snap my head sideways.
“Have you no dignity?” she spat. “Look at you—humiliated, ridiculed. You attend my husband’s birthday alone like a cast-off mistress while your so-called husband is off licking champagne from another woman’s skin.”
I said nothing.
“Do you understand what this looks like?” she continued furiously. “The Thorn name was meant to fortify us. Instead, we’re a joke. If your family had an ounce of pride, they’d throw you into a well and be done with it.”
I swallowed blood and replied quietly, “I didn’t release the article.”
She sneered. “Don’t insult me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Call Viktor right now and order him back—or face the consequences.”
I already knew.
He wouldn’t come. Not for me. Not if I begged. Not even if I broke.
“I’ll accept it,” I said.
Her brows lifted sharply. “What did you just say?”
“I’ll take whatever punishment you decide.”
