Page 85 of His Forced Bride

He's studying my art like it's priceless when in fact, it's not even that good.

The light begins to fade by the time I clean my brushes.

My back aches from standing, but the painting captures what I wanted—the play of light on water in the fountain out the window, the way the breeze kicks up the leaves, and the passion of a soul that longs to be free.

And my art is the only way I can express it.

"It's good," Yuri says as I cover the wet canvas.

"It's rusty. I haven't painted in years."

"Since your mother left…"

It's not a question, and I don't treat it as one. "Yes."

We walk toward the kitchen together without speaking, an occurrence so rare between us that I find myself savoring it.

There are no arguments, no power struggles.

Just two people sharing space without the constant undercurrent of conflict.

Dinner continues the unexpected peace.

Rosa has prepared roasted lamb with vegetables from the garden, and the dining room feels less cavernous with warm light from the chandelier.

Yuri sits across from me at the long oak table rather than at the head of the table.

I know he's just trying to position himself to look straight at me.

It's a bit unnerving, especially considering my recent observations.

I can't understand him.

I'm not sure what game he's playing.

The very same man who brandished a gun to force me to wed him has become somewhat of a refuge and a comfort, and I'm not sure what to think of that.

"Your businesses are stabilizing," he says as he cuts his lamb into careful bite-sized pieces.

I look up from my plate.

"Because of the funding you arranged."

"Because of competent management and loyal employees. The funding simply prevented immediate collapse."

"Why do you care, really? Not the investment excuse. The real reason."

I stop eating with a bite of meat on my fork and watch his face.

His dark eyes meet mine across the table.

"Your father built something significant from nothing. You followed in his footsteps. Destroying that would serve no purpose."

"But preserving it serves yours."

"Everything serves a purpose, Inessa. The question is whether that purpose aligns with survival."

I find myself leaning forward, drawn by the casual way he dissects complex problems into component parts.