Larissa couldn't sleep.
The snowstorm that had rattled the windows had passed, but its aftermath settled like frost in her chest. Her mind replayed the conversation with Anastasia—the way the older woman had looked at her with quiet pity, as though Larissa didn't even know the full game she was playing.
"Don't get comfortable," Anastasia had said. "You're not the first woman who thought she could change Lukyan Volkov."
And just like that, the cracks widened.
She rose from the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping Lukyan beside her. He had fallen asleep facing her—something he never did before. The night before, he had pulled her close, murmured something in Russian that made her heart stutter, and kissed her like he meant it.
She had let him.
And that terrified her more than anything.
She stepped out of the room, wrapping a robe tightly around herself, her bare feet moving silently over the heated marble floors. The mansion was dark, the staff already in their quarters, the children asleep in their rooms.
Larissa's footsteps slowed when she reached the hall outside Lukyan's office.
The door was cracked open.
A glow flickered inside—dim, golden. She hesitated, then quietly stepped in.
She froze.
On the desk were two objects that didn't belong to her, but spoke volumes: a photograph—yellowed at the edges—and a worn journal with a leather cover fraying at the sides.
The photo was of Lukyan and a woman she didn't recognize. Not Elena. Someone else.
She picked it up, her pulse quickening.
The woman had haunting gray eyes, just like Lukyan's. She stood with a proud tilt to her chin, her arm looped through a man's who bore a striking resemblance to Lukyan—though older, sterner, crueler.
Larissa flipped the photo over.
"Anastasia & Dmitri – before it all burned."
Her brows pulled together. Anastasia?
She reached for the journal, her fingers trembling as she flipped open the first page.
December 14th, 2002.
Father says I am too soft. But Lukyan is only ten. He still cries when the horses are beaten. I tell him not to let Father see his tears. Volkovs do not cry.
Larissa kept reading, skimming through the twisted reflections of a woman who had raised Lukyan in silence and steel. A woman who had been controlled by a man named Dmitri—the very one in the photo.
This wasn't Elena's doing. This was older. Deeper.
A legacy of cold hearts and cruel expectations.
A shadow moved in the corner of her vision. She turned—and there he was.
Lukyan.
His expression was unreadable, but she saw the muscle in his jaw tick. "You shouldn't be in here."
"I couldn't sleep," she whispered, guilt crawling up her spine. "I didn't mean to snoop."
"You read it."
It wasn't a question.
"I… I saw her name. Anastasia."
Lukyan exhaled slowly, stepping further into the room. "She was my aunt. My mother died when I was young. Anastasia raised me. Dmitri—my uncle—was like a second father. Worse than the first."
Larissa swallowed, not knowing what to say.
He walked over, picked up the photograph, and looked at it with eyes that turned glassy. "Anastasia tried to protect me from him. She failed."
Larissa reached out before she could stop herself, her fingers brushing his hand. "She didn't fail. You got out."
Lukyan looked at her then, really looked at her. And for the first time, the Ice King didn't look cold. He looked… human.
"She always warned me," he murmured. "She said, if I ever married, never to love. That love makes you weak. That it gives people a way in."
Larissa's heart thudded in her chest. "Is that why you chose a contract marriage?"
He nodded, barely.
"And now?" she asked quietly. "What happens if love breaks the contract?"
His hand reached for hers, fingers curling over her knuckles. "Then I renegotiate."
------
Larissa turned off the hallway light and leaned against the cool wall, trying to breathe through the tangle of emotions Lukyan had left behind.
But a small voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Mama?"
She looked down to find Alina—barefoot, clutching a stuffed fox—peeking up at her with sleepy eyes.
"Oh, sweet girl," Larissa whispered, crouching down to gather the toddler in her arms. "What are you doing awake?"
"I heard thunder." Alina snuggled close, her thumb slipping into her mouth.
"There's no thunder, sweetheart. Just the snow."
"But I dreamed you were gone," Alina mumbled against her shoulder. "And Papa was mad. And the house was empty."
Larissa's heart fractured.
She smoothed Alina's hair, blinking back the sting in her eyes. "I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere tonight."
Alina pulled back slightly, her eyes wide and serious. "Promise?"
Larissa hesitated for the barest moment.
Then she kissed her daughter's forehead and whispered, "Promise."
Even if it was a lie she needed to believe—for just a little while longer.