Bound by lies Trapped by Desire (Elena and Nikolai) novel Chapter 170

Chapter 170

Chapter 170

Elena’s POV:

“Was it… made for me?” I finally managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

He tilted his head, a faint, sad smile on his lips, and nodded. “And your mother. She was a fan of stuff like this. She never had such stuff in her childhood and wanted you to enjoy yours to the fullest.” He finished, and all of a sudden, at his words, I felt a lump in my throat, a sudden, sharp pang of loss for a woman I had never known.

The ache was so profound it made my eyes sting. She was gone, a ghost from a life that could have been, and yet here I was, standing in a room decorated for her and for me.

“I see,” I finally said, the words feeling utterly insufficient. I looked around the room again, my eyes catching on two closed doors connected to the lounge. They were a simple, polished wood, but they stood out amongst the pink of the room.

Before I could ask, Sergei seemed to read my thoughts. “You can go look around,” he said, his voice a little strained. He let out a soft cough and relaxed back into the plush sofa, a weary slump of his shoulders. I frowned, a little worried but I nodded and got up.

Anyways, I hadn’t come all the way here just to sit and stare. I could have done that in the hospital. If I was here either way, why not look around? Maybe I’d find something interesting.

I moved to the first door on the right, my hand hesitant on the polished wood. I pushed it open slowly, as soon as I did, the lights opened automatically, and a gasp escaped my lips

It was a painting room. The room itself was enormous, bigger than even the living room. But the sheer size was nothing compared to the sight before me. Every single wall was covered with paintings. They were propped on easels, leaning against the walls, and stacked in neat piles. They were in different styles, colors, and designs, from black–and–white charcoal sketches to vibrant, impressionistic landscapes. But the strangest, most beautiful thing of all was that they all depicted one person. It was as though an artist had gone mad with love, capturing every nuance, every angle, every fleeting emotion of a single subject.

1 felt a profound, chilling sense of a man having lost that person and having nothing to remember her by but his own memories, an echo of a life that was. My mouth felt dry as I looked at the woman painted on all these canvases. Her face was familiar in a way that felt like a dream. She was in a crowd, on a mountaintop, sitting by the sea. She was laughing, crying, and lost in thought. Every painting was a love letter, a desperate attempt to capture and hold onto a memory that was fading.

“Is that… my birth mother?” I asked. Even though my voice was soft, I knew he heard it behind me.

“Yes, that’s Anaya,” he said, his voice rough. “She never liked taking pictures. So all I could do was paint her.”

I walked into the room, my feet moving as if in a trance, my eyes fixed on one particular picture, she was smiling, her eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made her look so joyous. A single, flawless white rose was tucked behind her ear, a simple contrast to her stunningly beautiful white dress. The dress billowed around her as though she was caught in a gentle breeze in a garden filled with flowers. The painter was trying to portray that the person in the picture was more beautiful than any flower around her, and in that moment, I believed it.

And she was. She really was. Her hair was long, almost longer than my own, a cascade of dark, slightly wavy locks. The same dimples that I had were in her cheeks. It was like I was looking at a younger version of me, a mirror into a past that was so close and yet so far.

Anaya Malik had died at an age younger than I was now. Hadn’t she? She’d turned to drugs and forfeited her own life. I couldn’t help clenching my fists then. What would have happened if she hadn’t? What if I hadn’t ended up at an orphanage and instead lived my life with these two? In such luxury with 1 mother like her and a father like Sergei. I scoffed then, a small, bitter sound that was meant for no one but myself would have been a spoiled brat a princess in a fortress, living a life of privilege and ease,

After looking around for a few more minutes I turned around, giving the woman in the palating one last, long look before I left and close behind me. The heavy wood clicked shut, separating me from a life that was never meant to be mine. As nice as imagining if sound the worst ifs were, I would still choose my current life. I would choose my mother, Beatrix, and my father, George Nut beraus these two. They watery – but because that was just how it was supposed to be. They raise I’me, they loved me and they mad now. It was useless spending time thinking of what its anymore, or regretting choices that I could nevar Kai, made

Chapter 170

C, CU HUY

When I re–entered the lounge, Sergei was still on the sofa. I moved to take my seat. The time for musing was over. It was time for answers.

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“If Anaya was that precious to you… then why did you marry Svetlana?” I asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. I saw his body stiffen. 1 quickly added, “I’m not blaming you. I’m just curious. If you don’t mind telling me.”

He smiled, a dry, humorless expression. “Don’t speak so politely… I much rather enjoyed your fiery personality.” he said, and I rolled my eyes, a ge that came so naturally now that it was almost second nature. It made him cough again, a low, hacking sound.

“Marrying Svetlana wasn’t my own choice. After Anaya passed, I myself got into drinking and was most of the time intoxicated. My life was a fog. One night at an event, I hadn’t realized but I had become so intoxicated to the point of passing out.” He laughed, the sound hollow and devoid of any real mirth. “Ten months later, Svetlana and her father showed up at my door with a baby in hand and told me to take responsibility for my actions.” Even as he said those words, my heart felt like it was being crushed.

“You’re saying she… raped you?” I asked, my voice growing softer, the word a horrible, ugly thing that felt wrong on my tongue. He looked away, his eyes fixed on some distant point, his silence a confirmation that I was right.

“Let’s not talk about the details. Anyways… since her father and I were at that point equals and in the same industry with a lot of the same clients, I had no choice but to accept signing the marital documents. Without any bridal procession or a church wedding like Anaya’s, she entered my home and has drifted in and out of here for decades now.” He finished, and I felt like I had swallowed sand.

“You… didn’t you get a DNA test done? What if…” I trailed off, remembering Lazar’s eyes and how much he looked like Sergei.

“I did get a DNA test done,” he said, his voice flat. He had confirmed it. Lazar was his son, a product of a night of violence. The full truth was now in front

of me.

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