Bound by lies, Trapped by Desire - Chapter 90: Chapter 90
You are reading Bound by lies, Trapped by Desire, Chapter 90: Chapter 90. Read more chapters of Bound by lies, Trapped by Desire.
Elena’s POV:
That night passed faster than I expected.
But not because it was light or easy or forgettable. No—if anything, it passed fast because my brain never stopped spinning. Not even for a second. Every thought led to another, every answer cracked open more questions. I couldn’t catch a breath, couldn’t find the silence between thoughts.
How had no one ever figured it out?
How had everyone missed the fact that I’d been switched at birth?
How did my biological mother not even realize that the baby she held—if she held her at all—wasn’t her own blood?
Was it drugs? The trauma? Or… was there something even darker going on?
And after Sergei left, I couldn't help but keep circling back to the same place.
Could I even believe him?
He was Mafia. Not just affiliated—but Sergei Morozov, one of the top names in the underworld of Velhaven. A man like that didn’t deal in truth. He dealt in convenience. In manipulation. In threats and leverage and things that looked like generosity but were really just tools.
So when he said my mother overdosed... did she?
Or did he lie?
I had no idea anymore.
And worse—every time my thoughts started to drift in that direction, they inevitably took a sharp turn straight into him.
Nikolai.
Was he thinking about me right now?
Oh God. No. Stop.
I literally shook my head as if trying to dislodge the thought physically. I couldn’t afford to go there. Not again. Because I’d realized—over the last few hours—that the moment I started thinking about Nikolai... I couldn’t stop.
It was like falling into a current. One second I’d be standing on the shore, the next I’d be drowning in the memory of his voice, his hands, his eyes. The soft way he said Malishka, the way his fingertips traced circles over my spine in bed, how his laughter sounded just before he lost control.
Malishka.
The nickname echoed in my skull like a ghost. I’d known what it meant the moment I heard it. It wasn’t just a pet name—it was a Russian endearment, almost childlike in tenderness. Like baby. Sweetheart. Soft.
And now it felt like mockery.
Like every beautiful thing he gave me had been carved from a lie.
I sucked in a breath and pushed myself to my feet.
My head throbbed. I hadn’t slept properly last night, and the consequences were catching up with me—my temples pulsed like a war drum, and my limbs felt heavy, sluggish.
I looked toward the closed door of my mother’s bedroom.
She’d left early.
I could tell from the half-full tea mug sitting cold in the sink, the quietness of the apartment, the lack of movement beyond the walls.
She hadn’t even woken me up.
I laughed, but it came out dry, hollow.
That was a first. She was really mad at me.
The ache that bloomed in my chest then was different. Not like heartbreak. Not like betrayal. Just… emptiness. A quiet grief that I couldn’t shake off. Because my circle had never been large—just a handful of people who mattered. And right now, the most important one was angry with me.
And the other?
The one I thought might matter?
He was probably on the other side of the city right now, in a high-rise office, going over documents, planning acquisitions. Unbothered. Uninterested. Over it.
Over me.
I couldn’t stop myself from questioning every second we spent together. Was it all real? Was he ever genuine? Or had he always been playing a game?
Every time he said Malishka, was it with affection... or amusement?
I wanted to believe the former. I did. Especially after I saw him cry.
But I didn’t trust myself to know the difference anymore.
I sat in that haze for a few more minutes before finally dragging myself into the bathroom. I had classes. My routine was the only thing left that still made sense.
I showered quickly, letting the hot water loosen the tension from my shoulders and rinse away the weight of the last twelvish hours. When I stepped out, I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself.
Clear eye bags. Skin sallow. Eyes slightly red.
I didn't bother with concealer. No one gave a shit. Not during exam season.
I pulled on a hoodie and jeans, slipping on my compression gloves automatically. Hair went into a ponytail, then shoved beneath the same black baseball cap I’d worn the day before. It smelled like outside air and rain. Fitting.
I grabbed my bag. Slid my phone into my hoodie pocket. Gave the apartment one last long look.
Then I pulled the door open, stepped out, and locked it behind me.
The city met me with a grey sky, the kind that threatened rain but never followed through. I flagged down a bus and climbed aboard, letting the rumble of the engine and the jostling of the ride lull me into a kind of blank state.
By the time I reached the university, my headache had dulled—but the emotional fatigue hadn’t.
I slipped into this subject’s last class of the semester—Advanced Materials in Automotive Design. The professor was already mid-rant, gesturing wildly at a slide filled with graphs and tensile load equations.
Normally, I would’ve been scribbling notes like my scholarship depended on it.
Because it did.
But today?
Today I just... twirled my pen in slow circles.
I was the top student in my department. A scholarship recipient. A future star in engineering, if you asked any of the faculty.
And here I was, zoning out completely.
Ashamed wasn’t even the word. I was lost.
I looked around the lecture hall. Lazar wasn’t there. Thank god. Not surprising though. He rarely showed up unless there was a guest speaker or a test. In fact his attendance had recently been way too unusually good.
Nonetheless, he always got by. Money bought access. Morozov money bought everything.
He wasn’t like me.
When the lecture finally ended, the class erupted into motion. Students gathering bags, sliding out of rows, breaking into chatter about food, plans, stress. Some drifted toward the cafeteria. Others headed straight for the library across the road.
I stood slowly. Stared at the door. Then sighed.
I didn’t want to go home. Not yet.
Didn’t want to eat either. My stomach still twisted anytime I thought about food.
Maybe I should find somewhere quiet to study. Do something productive. Reclaim some control.
The university had a secondary library on the third floor of the engineering wing—a smaller one, tucked away and rarely used. I headed there, letting the familiar click of my sneakers on the tile guide me.
As I walked, the halls grew quieter. The din of conversation faded, replaced by the echo of my own movement. There was something eerie about it—this stillness. This stretch of hallway where nothing moved except for me.
Then I heard it.
Whispers.
“Please... don’t... I—I—”
A girl’s voice.
Soft. Panicked. Cut off too fast.
My footsteps slowed. I turned my head slightly.
Another voice. Male. Low. Firm.
“I don’t like it when someone’s watching.”
My heart jumped.
I stopped walking entirely.
What the hell?
It was coming from the janitor’s closet just ahead—door half-cracked open. The strip of fluorescent light above it flickered faintly, like something out of a horror movie.
For a second, I hesitated.
Maybe they were making out. Maybe it was just two students being dumb and horny in the middle of a weekday. In a closet. In a university.
Gross.
I should leave. Mind my business. Go study.
Then I heard it.
A loud cry.
Instinct moved before my logic could argue.
I lunged forward and shoved the door open.
And what I saw beyond it made my jaw drop.
That night passed faster than I expected.
But not because it was light or easy or forgettable. No—if anything, it passed fast because my brain never stopped spinning. Not even for a second. Every thought led to another, every answer cracked open more questions. I couldn’t catch a breath, couldn’t find the silence between thoughts.
How had no one ever figured it out?
How had everyone missed the fact that I’d been switched at birth?
How did my biological mother not even realize that the baby she held—if she held her at all—wasn’t her own blood?
Was it drugs? The trauma? Or… was there something even darker going on?
And after Sergei left, I couldn't help but keep circling back to the same place.
Could I even believe him?
He was Mafia. Not just affiliated—but Sergei Morozov, one of the top names in the underworld of Velhaven. A man like that didn’t deal in truth. He dealt in convenience. In manipulation. In threats and leverage and things that looked like generosity but were really just tools.
So when he said my mother overdosed... did she?
Or did he lie?
I had no idea anymore.
And worse—every time my thoughts started to drift in that direction, they inevitably took a sharp turn straight into him.
Nikolai.
Was he thinking about me right now?
Oh God. No. Stop.
I literally shook my head as if trying to dislodge the thought physically. I couldn’t afford to go there. Not again. Because I’d realized—over the last few hours—that the moment I started thinking about Nikolai... I couldn’t stop.
It was like falling into a current. One second I’d be standing on the shore, the next I’d be drowning in the memory of his voice, his hands, his eyes. The soft way he said Malishka, the way his fingertips traced circles over my spine in bed, how his laughter sounded just before he lost control.
Malishka.
The nickname echoed in my skull like a ghost. I’d known what it meant the moment I heard it. It wasn’t just a pet name—it was a Russian endearment, almost childlike in tenderness. Like baby. Sweetheart. Soft.
And now it felt like mockery.
Like every beautiful thing he gave me had been carved from a lie.
I sucked in a breath and pushed myself to my feet.
My head throbbed. I hadn’t slept properly last night, and the consequences were catching up with me—my temples pulsed like a war drum, and my limbs felt heavy, sluggish.
I looked toward the closed door of my mother’s bedroom.
She’d left early.
I could tell from the half-full tea mug sitting cold in the sink, the quietness of the apartment, the lack of movement beyond the walls.
She hadn’t even woken me up.
I laughed, but it came out dry, hollow.
That was a first. She was really mad at me.
The ache that bloomed in my chest then was different. Not like heartbreak. Not like betrayal. Just… emptiness. A quiet grief that I couldn’t shake off. Because my circle had never been large—just a handful of people who mattered. And right now, the most important one was angry with me.
And the other?
The one I thought might matter?
He was probably on the other side of the city right now, in a high-rise office, going over documents, planning acquisitions. Unbothered. Uninterested. Over it.
Over me.
I couldn’t stop myself from questioning every second we spent together. Was it all real? Was he ever genuine? Or had he always been playing a game?
Every time he said Malishka, was it with affection... or amusement?
I wanted to believe the former. I did. Especially after I saw him cry.
But I didn’t trust myself to know the difference anymore.
I sat in that haze for a few more minutes before finally dragging myself into the bathroom. I had classes. My routine was the only thing left that still made sense.
I showered quickly, letting the hot water loosen the tension from my shoulders and rinse away the weight of the last twelvish hours. When I stepped out, I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself.
Clear eye bags. Skin sallow. Eyes slightly red.
I didn't bother with concealer. No one gave a shit. Not during exam season.
I pulled on a hoodie and jeans, slipping on my compression gloves automatically. Hair went into a ponytail, then shoved beneath the same black baseball cap I’d worn the day before. It smelled like outside air and rain. Fitting.
I grabbed my bag. Slid my phone into my hoodie pocket. Gave the apartment one last long look.
Then I pulled the door open, stepped out, and locked it behind me.
The city met me with a grey sky, the kind that threatened rain but never followed through. I flagged down a bus and climbed aboard, letting the rumble of the engine and the jostling of the ride lull me into a kind of blank state.
By the time I reached the university, my headache had dulled—but the emotional fatigue hadn’t.
I slipped into this subject’s last class of the semester—Advanced Materials in Automotive Design. The professor was already mid-rant, gesturing wildly at a slide filled with graphs and tensile load equations.
Normally, I would’ve been scribbling notes like my scholarship depended on it.
Because it did.
But today?
Today I just... twirled my pen in slow circles.
I was the top student in my department. A scholarship recipient. A future star in engineering, if you asked any of the faculty.
And here I was, zoning out completely.
Ashamed wasn’t even the word. I was lost.
I looked around the lecture hall. Lazar wasn’t there. Thank god. Not surprising though. He rarely showed up unless there was a guest speaker or a test. In fact his attendance had recently been way too unusually good.
Nonetheless, he always got by. Money bought access. Morozov money bought everything.
He wasn’t like me.
When the lecture finally ended, the class erupted into motion. Students gathering bags, sliding out of rows, breaking into chatter about food, plans, stress. Some drifted toward the cafeteria. Others headed straight for the library across the road.
I stood slowly. Stared at the door. Then sighed.
I didn’t want to go home. Not yet.
Didn’t want to eat either. My stomach still twisted anytime I thought about food.
Maybe I should find somewhere quiet to study. Do something productive. Reclaim some control.
The university had a secondary library on the third floor of the engineering wing—a smaller one, tucked away and rarely used. I headed there, letting the familiar click of my sneakers on the tile guide me.
As I walked, the halls grew quieter. The din of conversation faded, replaced by the echo of my own movement. There was something eerie about it—this stillness. This stretch of hallway where nothing moved except for me.
Then I heard it.
Whispers.
“Please... don’t... I—I—”
A girl’s voice.
Soft. Panicked. Cut off too fast.
My footsteps slowed. I turned my head slightly.
Another voice. Male. Low. Firm.
“I don’t like it when someone’s watching.”
My heart jumped.
I stopped walking entirely.
What the hell?
It was coming from the janitor’s closet just ahead—door half-cracked open. The strip of fluorescent light above it flickered faintly, like something out of a horror movie.
For a second, I hesitated.
Maybe they were making out. Maybe it was just two students being dumb and horny in the middle of a weekday. In a closet. In a university.
Gross.
I should leave. Mind my business. Go study.
Then I heard it.
A loud cry.
Instinct moved before my logic could argue.
I lunged forward and shoved the door open.
And what I saw beyond it made my jaw drop.
End of Bound by lies, Trapped by Desire Chapter 90. Continue reading Chapter 91 or return to Bound by lies, Trapped by Desire book page.