Chapter-3 The Sin - 1

Throughout the ride to Sokolov Mansion, I could only sit there and hold my breath, afraid that if I breathed too loudly or shifted even an inch, I’d tear the wound open and stain the pristine leather seat beneath me with blood.

The car glided smoothly over the snow-laced road, tires whispering against the frost. Inside, it was warm… too warm. Heat pooled beneath my coat, sweat gathering at my lower back despite the winter biting outside. Every small bump sent a sharp reminder through my skin, a sting that bloomed and then throbbed, as if my body refused to forget what had been done to it.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been punished but it was the first time someone knew.

God forgives those who endure. Who knows their place and take accountance for their action.

Catherine sat beside me, perfectly composed. Her gloved hands rested in her lap, posture elegant, chin lifted as she stared out the window like nothing in the world could disturb her calm. She hadn’t noticed. Not the way I sat stiff as stone, not the way my fingers curled into the fabric of my clothes, clutching it as though it could keep me together.

And I was grateful for that. Terribly, selfishly grateful.

Because if she saw, if anyone saw, there would be questions. Questions I didn’t have answers to. Questions that would pull threads I desperately needed left untouched.

Soon, we reached the outskirts leading to their grand mansion. And my heart just pounded loudly.

Even from a distance, it radiated power.

My stomach twisted.

The car slowed, crunching over gravel dusted with snow, before coming to a smooth stop beneath the towering entrance. The driver stepped out quickly, opening Catherine’s door first.

“Careful,” She murmured as she rose.

I nodded, swallowing hard, and followed her out.

The cold struck instantly stealing the air from my lungs. I welcomed it. It felt like penance. Like balance.

Sokolov Mansion did not look lived in but arbitrating. As though it had stood there long before me and would remain long after I was gone, unchanged by the smallness of human suffering.

I lowered my gaze instinctively.

“So this is your first time here,” Catherine said lightly, her heels clicking against marble as the doors opened before us.

“Yes,” I replied, my voice quieter than I intended.

“It can feel overwhelming at first,” she continued, not unkindly. “But you’ll find your footing soon enough.”

I wondered if she believed that. Or if she simply believed people should.

Inside, warmth swallowed me whole. The scent of polished wood and something faintly metallic lingered in the air. Staff lined the entrance, their eyes flicking toward me and away again with practiced will. I felt exposed beneath their gazes, as though they could see straight through fabric and skin and into the sin beneath.

I kept my head bowed as we passed.

Do not draw attention, a familiar voice of my mother followed me, the meek are spared.

Catherine led me up a wide staircase. My steps followed. Pain flared with every movement, but I welcomed it, clinging to the belief that endurance was devotion. God forgave those who bore their burdens without complaint. Those who accepted their place and took accountability for their actions whether they remembered committing them or not.

“This will be your room,” Catherine said at last, opening a tall door at the end of a quiet corridor.

I nodded, stepping behind her.

The room was… too beautiful.

High ceilings. Tall windows veiled in pale curtains. A bed large enough to swallow me whole, dressed in white linens so pristine they felt harsh. I stepped inside carefully, as though afraid to stain the air itself.

“If you need anything,” Catherine added, pausing at the threshold, “the staff is always nearby.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

She studied me for a moment, long enough to make my chest tighten, then nodded and left me alone.

The door closed softly behind her.

Silence settled.

Only then did I allow myself to breathe.

I crossed the room slowly, my coat slipping from my shoulders as I reached the bathroom. The mirror greeted me with a stranger’s face, pale, strained, eyes too bright. My hands trembled as I turned away, unable to hold her gaze.

I couldn’t look at the face my mother spent all her life loathing. I reached behind me, fingers catching on fabric.

And I tore it.

I shrugged out of my dress, fabric pooling uselessly at my feet. I stood there, bare-backed, shaking, before forcing myself to turn toward the mirror.

The whip marks stared back at me.

Angry. Red. Split open like a confession I hadn’t meant to make.

A sharp breath tore from my chest. Tears blurred my vision instantly, hot and humiliating. I pressed my palm to the sink, nails digging into porcelain as pain flared anew.

This is correction. This is mercy.

God wounded those He wished to save. He carved away corruption. That was what I had been taught. What I clung to now as my body trembled under the weight of it.

I dropped to my knees and reached for my bag, fingers frantic as I rummaged through it until I found the small first-aid kit I’d packed out of habit and fear.

My hands shook as I cleaned the wound, hissing softly when the sting became unbearable. I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood. Tears slipped free anyway, dotting the marble floor.

I’m sorry.

Though I wasn’t sure to whom. God. Myself. The body I inhabited and failed to protect.