Chapter 4 Rage

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Daphne

Elizabeth.

The name hits me square in the chest and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Only he calls me that. Not Liz or Lizzie or Beth or any of the other shortened versions people have tried to slap onto me over the years. Just Elizabeth. Full and complete and devastating in a way I've never been able to explain to anyone.

I used to hate the name. It sounded too formal. Too old-fashioned. But that changed the day Nikolai started saying it, the day it rolled off his tongue like it belonged there.

It became the sweetest name in the world.

And the way he says it, with that Russian accent slipping in just enough to make it special, is a weapon I have never learned to defend against.

"You look beautiful."

The words ring in my head like a drug I swore I'd never touch again. I try to look away, but his eyes hold mine captive the way they always have. Mismatched and devastating. One blue, from his mother and the other, grey from his father. Both of them seeing straight through every wall I've spent two years building.

Before I can process anything, Esme moves beside me. She's been stiff as a board since we walked in, but now she draws his attention away from me with a voice that sounds almost... cheerful.

"Nikolai," she says. "I never thought I'd see you again."

She's smiling at him. Genuinely smiling. And I know exactly what she's doing.

Esme knows everything. Every tear I cried, every letter I sent that went unanswered, every night I spent staring at my phone waiting for a call that never came. She held me while I fell apart. She knows the damage he caused better than anyone.

And she also knows that this breakfast could turn into a disaster if we let it. She knows my parents are watching, knows they have no idea what happened between us, knows that one wrong move from me could raise questions I'm not prepared to answer.

Because imagine if they found out. Imagine if my mother and father discovered that their daughter spent over a year fucking her "uncle" in secret. Imagine the scandal. The shame. The destruction.

Esme is trying to save me from myself. Distracting them. Keeping the peace. Giving me time to pull myself together.

But it still stings. Just a little. Watching her smile at him like he hasn't shattered me into a million pieces.

She even goes further, because apparently she can't help herself. "I see you've decided to grow your hair out. What's the matter? Couldn't find a barber in whatever hole you disappeared into?"

Nikolai just smiles at her. Fondly. Like she's a child who's said something amusing.

"It's nice to you too, Esmeralda." he says, and his voice is warm in a way I haven't heard in years.

She walks toward him and I follow because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment,  but imagine me standing there by the door like a fool.

Esme doesn't just walk. She practically skips.

Nikolai stands up quickly, a smile plastered on his face. He's not his usual cold self today.

Before I can process what's happening, Esme rushes into his arms.

He doesn't even shake. He just wraps his arms around her like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he hasn't been gone for two years.

"I've missed you," Esme says.

My parents are watching happily. My mother is actually beaming. My father looks like all his Christmases have come at once.

And why wouldn't they? They don't know. They have absolutely no idea what happened between us. To them, Nikolai is just my father's brother. A beloved family member who's finally come home after years away. They don't know about the nights we spent tangled together, the promises he whispered against my skin, the way he threw me away like I meant nothing.

They're innocent. Completely and utterly innocent.

They have no idea their daughter is sitting here drowning in memories of their "brother" fucking her senseless.

Esme finally lets go, and he has the nerve to stand there waiting for me to do the same.

I think about ignoring the rage, about hugging him just to keep up appearances, just to get through this breakfast without causing a scene.

But I can't. I fucking can't.

Instead, I walk toward him stiffly and give him a brief, perfunctory hug. His scent envelopes me immediately. I ignore it. The hug lasts approximately two seconds. Maybe less.

"It's nice to see you again," I say, and even to my own ears, it sounds like I'm reading from a script.

I don't wait for anyone's reaction. I just quickly take the empty seat farthest from him and sit quietly, staring at the plate in front of me like it holds the answers to all of life's questions.

The room goes quiet. That tense, uncomfortable quiet that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.

From my peripheral vision, I see both Nikolai and Esme sit down. Esme slides into the seat beside me, her presence a warm comfort at my side. Nikolai returns to his place between my parents, settling in like he belongs there.

The tension is thick enough to choke on, but I keep my eyes glued to my meal, dishing food onto my plate with hands that are trembling so badly I'm surprised I don't drop the serving spoon.

I quickly hide my hands under the table.

Before the awkwardness can fester into something even worse, my father clears his throat and says, "Nikolai, I can't believe I have my brother with me on this special day."

I ball my fists under the table, feeling my blood boil.

Nikolai's voice is smooth as silk when he replies, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Wouldn't miss it for the world. The words echo in my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull, and I have to physically stop myself from throwing my fork at his stupid, beautiful, treacherous face.

Where was this dedication two years ago? Where was this commitment when I was sending him letters begging him to just talk to me, just explain what happened?

He didn't miss a single moment of my suffering, apparently. He made sure to be right here for this, for my engagement to another man, for the performance of a lifetime.

And he's sitting there, between my parents, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

I hate him.

I hate him so much I can taste it, bitter and sharp on my tongue.

But beneath the hate, beneath the rage, beneath the hurt that's threatening to consume me whole, there's something else. Something I don't want to name. Something that stirred the moment he said my name.

Elizabeth.

The name echoes in my head again, and I grip my fork tighter, knuckles white, and force myself to take a bite of food I can't even taste.

This is going to be the longest breakfast of my life.