The first rule of being a Stravos: you don't run. Not from family. Not from blood. Not even from the life that slowly kills you.
I stare at the ceiling, my fingers gripping the silk sheets tangled around my legs. The room is quiet, but outside my window, the city hums with life-horns blaring, sirens wailing, people moving freely, unaware of what it means to wake up in a house like mine.
A house where love is conditional, trust is currency and power is the only thing that matters.
The morning air is crisp, slipping through the half-open window, but the weight in my chest is heavier. Another day of playing my part. Another day of being Elysia Stravos, daughter of Julius Stravos, heir to an empire built on fear and blood.
I drag a hand down my face, willing myself to move, to push past the exhaustion that lingers deeper than sleep. I'm not physically tired-I'm tired of this. Of waking up in a life I never chose. Of wearing a name that doesn't belong to me but rather to the empire my father built through deals made in the dark.
My feet hit the cold marble floor, sending a sharp contrast against the warmth of my skin. The mansion is silent, but it's never truly empty. Guards are stationed at every entrance, cameras track my every move, and somewhere in this house, my father is already awake-probably planning another deal, another threat, another reason why I'll never be free.
I walk toward the mirror, staring at the girl reflected back at me.
The mirror never lies.
It reflects everything I am and everything I cannot escape.
My deep wine-red hair cascades past my shoulders in waves, a stark contrast against my pale skin. The color is defiance-my choice, my rebellion, no matter how small. In a world where daughters are meant to be shadows, not flames, I choose to burn.
But even the boldest color can't change what's underneath.
My fingers trail over my collarbone, down my arm, as if searching for cracks in the perfect image. I don't find any-but that doesn't mean they're not there.
And still, I stay.
Because Stravos blood doesn't run.
A sharp knock on the door drags me out of my thoughts. The sound is precise, controlled. A reminder that my time isn't my own.
"Miss Stravos," a voice calls from the other side. One of my father's men. "Your father expects you downstairs."
Of course, he does.
I exhale, reaching for the silk robe draped over a chair, tying it loosely as I step out of my room. My footsteps are muffled against the expensive rugs lining the halls. The air here always feels heavier, the walls too thick, the silence too suffocating.
By the time I reach the dining room, I've already braced myself.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm toast lingers in the air, but it does little to ease the weight pressing against my chest. The long mahogany table stretches between us like a battlefield, crystal chandeliers above casting a cold glow over the scene.
My father sits at the head of the table, the newspaper in his hands rustling as he flips a page. He doesn't look up. He doesn't need to. His presence commands the room without effort, without sound.
Beside him, my mother stirs her tea with practiced elegance. She doesn't acknowledge me either, but her sharp gaze flickers in my direction, scanning me with quiet expectation.
I slide into my usual seat, reaching for my coffee. My fingers curl around the delicate porcelain cup, but I don't drink yet.
"You're late," my father finally says, his tone smooth yet sharp enough to cut through the quiet.
I twirl my cup lazily between my hands. "Didn't realize breakfast had a curfew."
His gaze flicks up, steel meeting fire. "In this house, everything does."
Mom exhales softly, a silent warning for me to choose my words carefully. I don't.
"Right. Because control is everything to you, isn't it?" I murmur, finally taking a sip. The bitterness coats my tongue, grounding me.
Dad folds the newspaper and sets it down, his expression unreadable. "You live in my house. You wear my name. That means you follow my rules."
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. "And if I don't?"
The silence that follows is suffocating. My mother presses her lips together, her fingers tightening around the delicate handle of her teacup.
My father doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to.
"Then you'll learn why defying me is never an option."
The warning hums beneath my skin, familiar yet no less heavy. I know better than to push him further. But still, I can't shake the feeling that one day, I will.
And when that day comes, I won't be asking for permission.
I take another slow sip of coffee, pretending his words don't weigh on me, pretending I don't already know how this game plays out.
Mom sets her teacup down with a soft clink, her gaze shifting between us. "Julius," she murmurs, an attempt at peace. "There's no need for this at the breakfast table."
"There's no need for defiance either," he counters smoothly, picking up his fork like we weren't just discussing my place in this empire of his.
I don't reply. I don't trust myself to.
Instead, I watch as he cuts into his toast with precision, as if nothing about this conversation unsettles him.
"You'll be attending the gala tomorrow night," my mother continues, her voice softer now, careful. "It's important."
My stomach tightens.
Of course.
A room full of power-hungry men, their expensive suits hiding bloodstained hands, their smiles laced with intentions sharper than knives. An event where I'm expected to be silent, graceful, untouchable.
"No," I say flatly.
Dad doesn't even look up this time. "Yes."
I clench my jaw. "I don't see why I have to be there. It's not like my presence changes anything."
"It does," he replies coolly.. "You carry the Stravos name. That alone is power."
Power. That's all it ever is to him. Not me. Not what I want. Just the weight of a name, the illusion of control wrapped around my throat like a chain.
I push my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, loud in the tense silence. "I hate these stupid galas. I always get into fights with..." I pause, my gaze flickering between them. "You both know who."
My mother sighs, setting her teacup down gently, but my father doesn't even blink. He simply reaches for his napkin, dabbing the corner of his mouth with controlled precision before finally speaking.
"They'll be there too."
His words are smooth, unbothered-like he's merely stating the weather. But something about the way he says it makes my stomach tighten.
I school my expression, forcing out a scoff. "You mean another fight between him and me?"
A heavy silence stretches between us, thick with something unspoken. Something calculated.
"I'm not asking you to come. It's a order." he continues, meeting my gaze with the kind of authority that leaves no room for argument. "And you will behave."
I clench my jaw. "If he pushes my buttons to far. I won't promise if I can behave or not."
Dad finally looks up, his eyes sharp, unreadable. "Tomorrow we'll be meeting the Romano's too. I expect you to behave. End of discussion."
The warning lingers in the air, chilling despite the warmth of the sun spilling through the grand windows.
I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to break. But in the end, it doesn't matter.
Because tomorrow night, I'll have no choice but to play my part.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself before looking at my father. "Who are the Romanos?"
He sets down his fork, his gaze steady. "The Romanos are our new allies. A powerful family from Italy."
I frown. "Since when?"
"Since recently," he replies, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I glance at my mother, but she remains quiet, her expression unreadable.
Something about this doesn't sit right.
I grip the doorframe, my nails pressing into the polished wood. Every part of me wants to turn back, to argue, to rip apart the invisible chains holding me in place. But I know better.
Fighting is useless in this house. It has aways been.
So, I keep my voice even. "Fine. I'll be there."
I take a step forward.
"Elysia."
My father's voice halts me. I don't turn, but I feel the weight of his gaze pressing against my spine.
"There's no walking away from who you are," he says smoothly. "No running, either."
A slow exhale leaves my lips. A breath of resignation. A breath of defiance.
I step out, my pulse hammering. Because tomorrow night, I won't just be facing another suffocating gala.
I'll be facing them too.
And I don't know if I'll make it out 'well-behaved'.
But just as I take another step, my father's voice halts me again.
"There's something else."
I stop. My grip tightens on the doorframe, but I don't turn around just yet.
"The Morozovs are planning a strike."
My breath stills. The name alone sends a sharp, familiar sting down my spine.
Slowly, I turn, my expression carefully blank. Controlled. "And?"
Dad leans back in his chair, eyes cool, assessing. "And I need you to behave tomorrow."
A humorless laugh threatens to slip past my lips. So that's what this is about.
Not a warning. Not concern.
Control.
I tilt my head, studying him. "You think I'd cause a scene?"
His expression doesn't waver. "I think you're my daughter."
The words land heavier than they should. I know exactly what he means. I'm unpredictable. Reckless. Defiant.
And he doesn't trust me.
I cross my arms. "So you're telling me this just to keep me in line?"
He lifts his glass, taking a slow sip. "I'm telling you this because you need to understand what's at stake."
A muscle ticks in my jaw, but I don't look away. He's testing me. Pushing me.
I exhale through my nose, my fingers curling into my palms. "Noted."
But then I lift my chin, my voice cutting through the heavy air between us.
"If he says anything triggering, I won't think twice before slapping him."
His jaw tightens. "Elysia."
"I'm serious." I hold his gaze, unwavering. Because I mean it. "If he pushes me, I'll push back harder."
Dad's silence is heavy, but I don't wait for a response.
Instead, I turn and walk away.
The Morozovs don't make empty threats. If they're planning something, it's calculated. Precise. Deadly.
I hate these stupid galas. The fake smiles, the empty pleasantries, the suffocating expectations. But I've been playing my part for twenty-one years-what's one more night?