Vasílissa mou

4

The sunlight lanced through the window, shattering the remnants of sleep and illuminating the empty space beside me. A sigh escaped my lips as I sat up, the events of the previous night replaying in my mind like a tangled film reel. With a grimace, I pushed myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom, my muscles protesting slightly from the unexpected workout.

As I opened the door, a figure hunched over a laptop nearly made me jump out of my skin.

"Jesus Christ!" I shrieked, hand flying to my chest. "Do you have a death wish or something?"

Emmanuel, for it was him, barely looked up, his brow furrowed in what might have been considered annoyance if he wasn't such a master of emotional stoicism.

"How is that my fault?" he replied curtly, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Scowling, I realized how ridiculous I must have looked. He wasn't some phantom lurking in the shadows, just a man seemingly tethered to his digital leash.

"I thought you were in your office," I grumbled, the sound echoing off the tiled walls.

"And where else would I be?" he asked, not meeting my gaze.

There wasn't much point in arguing with a brick wall. This man seemed impervious to anything but the cold logic displayed on his screen. I completed my morning routine, the lingering scent of his cologne a reminder of the tangled emotions that had warred within me last night.

Halfway through a luxurious shower, the bathroom door creaked open a sliver. I whipped around, heart hammering in my chest, expecting to see Emmanuel again.

"If you were looking for a show, you could have just asked," I snapped, my thick Russian accent cutting through the steam-filled air.

"My phone," he said, his voice utterly devoid of excitement. This man and his mood swings! He retrieved the offending device before dropping another bombshell.

"Why would I want a show," he drawled, "when there's nothing to look at?"

The audacity! Had he forgotten the way men used to ogle me on shopping trips? "Foolish man," I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes.

After showering, I donned the plush bathrobe and emerged into the room. "What do I wear, four-eyes?" I asked, using a playful jab to mask the simmering resentment.

He finally offered a full glance, his gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second before moving towards the walk-in closet. "Head in there," he said, "I bought you some clothes yesterday."

My brows shot up. Why the giant shirt then? But I held my tongue. It felt like every interaction with him was a minefield, and I was still trying to navigate the terrain.

I emerged from the closet dressed in a tasteful outfit, ready to face whatever the day held. As I made to leave the room, his voice stopped me.

"Hold on," he said, a serious glint in his eyes. "We need to go over the ground rules around here."

This wasn't going to be a happily-ever-after, was it? Steeling myself, I turned to face him. "What kind of ground rules?" I asked, already dreading the answer.

"Fine," he repeated, the word clipped and devoid of warmth. The air crackled with the unspoken threat hanging between you. Here you were, the newly minted mafia queen, according to him, and his first order of business was a list of rules. It rankled.

"Let's get one thing straight, Emmanuel," you said, your voice steely despite the tremor that ran through you. "I am no one's trophy wife. And Omertà? That's a vow of silence, not obedience."

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might erupt. But then, to your surprise, a flicker of something akin to amusement danced in his eyes.

"You've got a spine, I'll give you that," he conceded, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "But being the head mafia wife isn't about embroidery and tea parties. There are rules, and they have to be followed."

You crossed your arms, refusing to back down. "Then perhaps we should discuss these rules," you countered. "Because the way I see it, there will be give and take on both sides."

He raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension, a power struggle simmering beneath the surface. This was a different side of Emmanuel, not the cold, calculating figure you'd encountered before. This was a man used to giving orders, a man who wasn't accustomed to being questioned.

Would you become his puppet queen, or would you carve out your own space in this gilded cage? It seemed the battle lines had just been drawn.