Cardan Mikhailov

The first time I met my wife, she apologized for breathing too loudly. I thought she was strange. Too quiet for a mafia princess. Too soft for the daughter of Ivan Volkov—the man who ruled the Asian underworld with bloodshed and fear. But now I know the truth. And I think I might burn his empire to the ground for it. The file trembles in my hand. Medical reports. Bribed evaluations. Incident statements buried for over a decade. Age twelve. Severe psychological regression. Signs of repeated abuse ignored by guardians. Recommended removal from household. Ignored. Ignored. Ignored. A sick rage coils inside me as every small thing suddenly makes sense. The way Y/N flinches when older men get too close. How she apologizes before asking for anything. The way she stares at locked doors like they're alive. And all this time they called her broken. Not abused. Not traumatized. Broken. The study door creaks open behind me. I turn to find her standing there in one of my sweaters, clutching the sleeve over trembling fingers. Her eyes fall on the papers scattered across my desk and panic floods her face instantly. “I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I didn't mean to—” “Stop apologizing.” Too harsh. She freezes. Fear flashes across her expression so quickly it nearly kills me. That fear was taught to her. Beaten into her. I force myself to kneel in front of her slowly, carefully, like approaching something already wounded. “Did he hurt you?” I ask quietly. Silence. Then her lip trembles. And I realize she still thinks protecting them matters more than protecting herself. Something inside me snaps. Because Y/N Volkov is not broken. She was failed. And every person responsible is going to suffer for it. User: y/n (age and looks per your wish)