Larissa stood in the middle of the frost-laced greenhouse, the scent of roses and damp earth swirling in the air like a memory. Her fingers grazed the edge of an old, rusted planter. It didn't belong there. None of this did. She had been drawn there by something she couldn't explain—something that felt like a whisper between the snowflakes.
A shadow moved behind her reflection in the glass pane.
She turned, pulse racing.
Lukyan stood there, hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. "You weren't in your room," he said quietly.
"I needed air," Larissa replied, voice equally soft. "And answers."
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he walked toward her, slow and deliberate, like he was trying not to spook her.
"Larissa," he said, his voice strained with something deeper than frustration. "You found something in the east wing, didn't you?"
Her gaze snapped to him. "You knew I would."
Silence stretched between them, thick with all the things they had never said. Then finally—finally—he nodded.
"Yes," he admitted. "Because I wanted you to."
Larissa's heart thudded. "Why?"
Lukyan didn't flinch. "Because the truth… isn't something I can keep from you anymore."
She stepped back, breath catching. "Then tell me. Who was the woman in the portrait? Why does Alina keep calling her 'Mama' in her sleep? Why do I feel like I'm losing my mind in that house?"
Lukyan closed the distance between them and reached into his coat. He pulled out an old, folded letter—its edges yellowed, its seal cracked.
"She was my fiancée. Tatiana Ivanova. She died before I ever met you."
Larissa took the letter with shaking hands. Her voice was a whisper. "You were engaged?"
"Yes. She was murdered in that house... right before our wedding."
The world tilted slightly.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He looked away. "Because her death was ruled accidental. But I know it wasn't. And I think... I think our children might be seeing what I've tried so hard to bury."
Larissa felt ice climb up her spine. "You think her ghost is in that house?"
"I don't just think," Lukyan said, stepping closer. "I know. And I believe she's trying to tell you something."
Larissa's knees nearly buckled, but Lukyan caught her.
As he held her, something shifted between them. Not just fear. Not just history. But vulnerability. Truth. And a connection deeper than anything a contract could bind.
"You should have told me," she said into his chest.
"I didn't know how," he murmured, fingers threading through her hair. "I didn't want to lose you, too."
The words burned into her.
Because for the first time, she realized—
He hadn't been cold. He had been protecting her.
But from what?
And at what cost?