#####CHAPTER 1: The Quiet Before The Storm

(Elena’s POV)

‎

‎Snow fell like whispers over Moscow that evening — soft, endless, and hauntingly quiet. The world outside my window glowed pale silver, every rooftop cloaked in white, every streetlamp haloed in mist. From my bedroom, the city looked like a dream painted in frost. If peace had a sound, it would be the slow hush of snow against glass.

‎

‎I sat at my vanity, brushing my hair in long, absent strokes. My reflection stared back — a pale girl with soft brown eyes, too wide for the world she lived in. My mother used to say I was born in winter because my soul was made of quiet things — snow, silence, and fragile hope.

‎

‎But hope doesn’t last long in Moscow.

‎

‎Not when you’re a Morozova.

‎

‎My father, Viktor Morozov, was a man of secrets — one of the old names in the business world, or so people said. I never asked too many questions. It was easier that way. In our house, silence wasn’t just safety — it was survival.

‎

‎He loved me, I think — in the way men like him could. His affection came in gestures, not words: the guards he placed outside my door, the rules that fenced my life, the promises that sounded more like threats.

‎Stay inside after dark, Lena.

‎Don’t talk to strangers.

‎Never ask about my work.

‎

‎And so, I didn’t.

‎

‎I lived within his cage — a golden one, lined with velvet and luxury, but a cage all the same. My days were filled with piano lessons, books, and the occasional charity event where I was paraded like something delicate and untouchable. My friends joked that I was a ghost — seen, never touched, never real.

‎

‎But that night, something in the air felt different.

‎

‎Maybe it was the way the snow seemed heavier, or how my father’s voice downstairs had turned sharp and clipped when he took a phone call. I caught only fragments of his words — shipment… betrayal… not again. The usual storm brewing beneath his calm.

‎

‎I tried not to listen.

‎

‎I focused on the piano instead. My fingers traced the keys, a soft melody filling the empty hall. The music was my escape — the one place his world couldn’t reach.

‎

‎Halfway through the song, the front door slammed open.

‎

‎I froze.

‎

‎My father’s voice followed, hard and furious, echoing off the marble walls. “Get them out of my sight! Do you hear me?”

‎

‎The guards scrambled. Footsteps, hushed voices, the tension of something gone terribly wrong. I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the steady beat of fear.

‎

‎“Lena,” my father called, his tone shifting when he reached the base of the stairs. “You’re still awake?”

‎

‎“Yes, Papa,” I said softly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

‎

‎He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. For a moment, he looked older, the weight of his world pressing hard on his shoulders. Then, as always, his expression softened when he looked at me. “Don’t worry about anything you hear tonight. It’s business.”

‎

‎Business. Always business.

‎

‎He came up to kiss my forehead before leaving again, his coat flaring as the door shut behind him. I watched from the window as his car disappeared into the snow.

‎

‎And though I didn’t know it then, that would be the last time I saw him alive.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎The next morning, the house was too quiet. The silence had teeth.

‎

‎By noon, I felt it — the shift, the hollow in the air. My father hadn’t returned. The guards wouldn’t meet my eyes. When I demanded answers, they gave me none.

‎

‎By evening, my world shattered.

‎

‎Two men came to the door — strangers in black coats, their faces unreadable. I remember the way they looked at me, pity flickering beneath their professionalism. One of them handed me an envelope sealed with red wax.

‎

‎Inside: my father’s ring.

‎And a note.

‎

‎It’s over.

‎

‎That was all it said. No name. No reason.

‎

‎I stood there, the snow blowing in through the open door, my fingers trembling as I clutched the ring. The world blurred. My knees gave out, and I sank to the floor, the sound of the wind swallowing my scream.

‎

‎They said later that it had been a deal gone wrong.

‎That my father had crossed the wrong man.

‎That his empire — whatever it truly was — had burned overnight.

‎

‎But no one told me who held the match.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎Days blurred into nights. The house emptied. The guards disappeared. The phone calls stopped.

‎

‎I was alone.

‎

‎I sold what little I could to keep the lights on, hiding from the world that had devoured him. Fear became my shadow. Sleep came only in fragments, haunted by dreams of red snow and faceless men.

‎

‎Then one night — three weeks after my father’s death — a black car stopped outside my gate.

‎

‎It was snowing again.

‎

‎I remember the sound of the engine, low and smooth, like a growl beneath the storm. A man stepped out — tall, dressed in black, the kind of presence that makes the air tighten. He didn’t knock. He didn’t have to.

‎

‎He simply looked up — and our eyes met through the window.

‎

‎For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.

‎

‎Something in his gaze felt ancient, cruel, and beautiful all at once. The kind of danger that doesn’t chase — it waits.

‎

‎I didn’t know his name then.

‎Didn’t know he was the man who had destroyed my father.

‎

‎Didn’t know that he had come for me next.

‎

‎But I remember thinking one thing as I stood frozen in the pale glow of the snowlight—

‎

‎That the devil must be handsome after all.

‎

‎To be continued…