The next morning, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bedroom Lily had woken up in. Damian hadn't returned after their heated exchange. The bed beside her had stayed cold and untouched. She hadn't expected comfort, but the absence still stung.
She showered slowly, letting hot water run over her, trying to scrub away the fog that still clung to her mind. But no memories returned—only emotions. Flashes of panic. Cold fear. The sensation of speeding, of wind in her face… headlights.
She clutched the tiled wall for balance. Why had she run?
Wrapped in a robe, she wandered the halls of the mansion. The silence was oppressive. No footsteps. No signs of servants. Just the distant hum of classical music from somewhere below. The walls were adorned with expensive paintings and photographs—though oddly, none of her. Not one.
She found Mikhail in the garden with his nanny. He waved to her, and she smiled, but her heart cracked. There were no lullabies in her memory, no echo of his first words, not even the pain of childbirth. It was like he'd been handed to her, complete and foreign.
"Do you know if Damian has a study or office?" she asked the nanny after a while.
The woman hesitated. "Yes, ma'am. But Mr. Volkov doesn't like anyone entering when he's not there."
Lily nodded slowly. "Of course."
But her curiosity was already clawing at her insides.
---
She waited until afternoon. The moment she heard Damian's car leave through the gravel driveway, she made her move.
The house was too quiet, which worked in her favor. She moved swiftly down the main hallway until she reached the heavy oak double doors near the dining room—his study.
She turned the brass knob. Locked.
Her pulse spiked. But the key was under the hallway vase—a spot too obvious for someone who had grown up hiding secrets. That alone told her something: Damian didn't fear her discovering what was inside. Or maybe… he never expected her to look.
The study was dark and masculine. Mahogany shelves lined with Russian classics, crystal decanters half-filled with amber liquor, a polished desk scattered with papers. Her fingers trembled as she sifted through the documents.
Names. Transactions. Shipping manifests. Some in Russian. Others in encrypted English codes.
She found a black leather folder labeled: John Keller.
Her breath caught. She opened it.
Photographs. Surveillance notes. Maps. Printed messages. And a headline: Prominent Businessman John Keller Killed in Car Explosion – Suspect Remains Unknown.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
John Keller. That was her father.
She dropped into the desk chair and read the notes.
> Subject: John Keller. Known aliases: "The Banker." Suspected links to Italian crime syndicate. Ties to Russian rival Kevin Moretti. History of asset laundering, human trafficking involvement suspected. Deceased: Explosion confirmed. Volkov not present at time. Motive unclear. Surveillance inconclusive. Frame suspected.
A second folder beneath it. Lily Keller.
Hands shaking, she opened it.
> Subject: Lily Keller. Legal adoption status unverified. DNA match pending. Raised by John Keller from infancy. Maternal records erased. Birth certificate—possible forgery. Security clearance: Top.
She stared at the document, bile rising in her throat.
Had her entire life been a lie?
A noise behind her made her jump. Footsteps.
She shoved the folders back into the drawer and closed it just as the door creaked open.
Damian stood in the doorway, one brow arched, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
"I should have known," he said, voice low. "Curiosity was always your poison."
Lily's blood ran cold.
"I was looking for answers," she said defensively. "Since no one seems interested in giving them to me."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a click.
"I was protecting you," he growled. "But you never could leave well enough alone."
"Protecting me from what?" she snapped. "From the truth? From who I am? From the fact that my father might have lied to me my entire life?"
His eyes darkened. "He wasn't your father, Lily."
She went still.
"I suspected it for years. I ran the tests behind your back months before your accident," he said, approaching slowly. "John Keller abducted you as a newborn. From the Moretti family."
"Moretti?" she echoed, confused.
"Your biological father," he said tightly. "Kevin Moretti. The head of the Italian syndicate."
She felt the ground sway beneath her feet.
"That's not possible. John—he raised me. He loved me."
"He trained you," Damian said. "He groomed you to hate my family. To fear me. You ran because you thought I killed him. But I didn't."
"You expect me to believe that?" Her voice cracked. "You expect me to believe you over the man who gave me everything?"
"I expect you to feel it," he said, grabbing her hand and placing it over his heart. It thudded beneath her palm, hard and steady. "You feel this. You always did."
She stared up at him, overwhelmed, angry, terrified—and yet… the heat between them ignited again. Like instinct.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear.
"Let me show you what else your body remembers."
Her knees buckled, and before she could resist, he swept her onto the desk.
"You're still mine, Lisichka," he murmured, voice husky. "Even if you forgot."
Lisichka. Little fox. The way he said it sent shivers down her spine.
"I don't remember being yours," she whispered.
He cupped her face roughly, his thumb brushing her lips. "Then I'll make you remember."
Their kiss was bruising, fierce, as though he wanted to claim her soul. When he lifted her onto the bed, it was like fire meeting ice—her confusion clashing with his need. Clothes vanished. Her back arched under his touch.
Every kiss. Every thrust. Every sound he drew from her body screamed a history she didn't recall—but her body knew him. Deeply.
When it was over, he held her like she might disappear again, but said nothing. Just stared at the ceiling as if haunted.
Afterward, she sat wrapped in one of his shirts, her head spinning—not from the heat of his touch but from the storm of truths he'd just unleashed.
"If Kevin Moretti is my biological father," she asked quietly, "why haven't I met him? Why hasn't he come for me?"
Damian's jaw tightened. "He doesn't know you survived the crash."
Her blood ran cold.
"And when he finds out?"
Damian looked away. "He'll want to claim you. Use you. Leverage you. You're a legacy, Lily. A bloodline tied to two empires."
Her thoughts spiraled.
"So I'm just… a pawn?"
His eyes snapped back to hers. "You're not a pawn. You're my wife."
"You married me to protect me?"
He hesitated.
"No," he said finally. "I married you because I couldn't stay away. I married you because you're mine."
The possessive fire in his voice both frightened and thrilled her.
But somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered: You still don't have the whole truth.
And until she did, she couldn't trust anyone—not even the man who held her heart in his dangerous hands.
---