Chapter Text
If there was anything to know about New York, it’s that most of the men that ruled the city were cruel and foul. They took control over clubs and bars, hiding the dangers of their true colors, which was usually money laundering and drug and weapons deals that usually ended in bloodbaths and massacres.
All which you were used to. The smell and sight of blood didn’t bother you like it used to when you were a teenager. The splash of crimson on walls and the dark red painted into the concrete on the streets didn’t urke you and cause your lunch to come up. At least not anymore.
You knew what happened behind closed doors, during meetings that usually took place either in the late hours of the night or in the early hours of the morning. Or both. Your father had been on the less dangerous side of the dark matters, because of you, his only daughter. No matter how hard he tried to hide it from you, you knew he still had his share of blood on his hands. Stark Industries wasn’t as ruthless in any way, only using force when needed. Hydra on the otherhand was another level of minacious and murderous.
Of course you knew that better than almost anyone, with you being married to one of the most ruthless and atrocious men you had ever known. Your father was skeptical to even let you in the sight of Brock Rumlow, let alone sit next to him during a business negotiation. One that Rumlow specifically scheduled with Tony Stark, offering that his only daughter be in a marriage with him, and in return he would leave Stark Industries alone.
You watched helplessly as your father refused, shaking his head and pacing around as he looked at Rumlow incredulously, like he had grown a second head. You swallowed back the tears, not allowing yourself to watch your father wager a war with one of New York’s most dangerous men.
Swallowing back a sob that was caught in your throat, you stood and rested a trembling hand upon your father’s shoulder, insisting that it was fine, that you were fine. And as the marriage papers were signed, money was handed over, and your life and freedom was put in the hands of Brock Rumlow. The man who would soon control every aspect of your new life. Where you could go, who you could see, what you did during the day. Everything you did, he knew about.
He took everything from you, except your surname. He wanted you to change it to Rumlow, to be Mrs. Y/n Rumlow, his perfect trophy wife, but you refused. You were born a Stark, you would live as a Stark, and you would die as a Stark.
Brock was furious, but you didn’t care in the least.
Brock had set up an engagement party, and you were engaged a year before you eventually - reluctantly - married him. The wedding was plain and simple. In a courthouse with your father and his closest men, along with Brock’s closest men. You didn’t want to plaster yourself in front of hundreds of his associates, so you opted for a smaller wedding. Your palms were clammy and your hands were shaky the entire time, and you noticed Brock run his thumb over the back of your hand, but you knew it was all for show. The hold he had on your hand was tense, like he was forcing himself to do it. But at least it fooled your father.
You were all he had left; it was no surprise that he had his distrust in Rumlow. Or Hydra for that matter. But with a brave face, you handed yourself over to him, caught in his grimy clutches as you moved your belongings into his penthouse. All of your clothes, your possessions and the books that you owned were all moved in with the help of your father and his personal assistant, the man who practically helped raise you, Happy.
“Here’s a place for all your history books, birdie,” Happy had said while setting up a bookshelf in a spare room that was just for you; walls painted a light lavender color, stream of lights circled around the walls with history and fictional books, paintings you made when you were younger, and photos of you and your father below on shelves.
It was more of a safe haven, a place you escaped to when Rumlow’s dark shadow loomed over the entire penthouse. A home within your home.
But when both your father and Happy left, Brock deemed himself to be cold, which was no surprise to you. He avoided you, as you did him, and left you to be in your private sanctuary, occasionally scoffing at the interior. Your love of history and reading made him laugh and roll his eyes, as if he were expecting you to be someone completely different.
In the first few months of your marriage, you only hid in your haven when the anger came out in your husband. You could tell the signs the moment he walked through the door; angry footsteps, the slamming of his liquor cabinet, and the pouring of what you assumed to be bourbon. You tried to make things work between the two of you, seeing as the two of you were married, but he paid you no attention.
You found yourself sitting in the room more often, and soon enough you found yourself hiding in your sanctuary everyday. Alone and away from your husband’s cruel world.
You were gentle and compassionate to him, even though he deserved none of your kindness. Deep down you did it to protect your father. You knew if you stepped out of line, even once, Rumlow would go after your father.
That wasn’t a chance you were willing to take.
So, you held your head up high, accompanied your husband to his parties, smiled at dinner parties and stayed by his side at his request; all with a fake smile plastered on your face. And when you arrived back at the penthouse, you went your separate ways. Brock went to his office while you sometimes sat on the balcony, in front of the small fire pit with a cup of coffee and your headphones in. It wasn’t very often, but the days where your husband’s anger was flaring were the days you found yourself venturing out of your room.
That’s how it was for the next four years. It broke you to be a poster wife, someone you didn’t want to be, but as long as it kept your father safe you would continue to do it. You would hide away from your husband, steer out of his path, stay as far away from him when he was drunk. That was the only time he appeared to show the slightest hint of an amiable attitude towards you. But it was often gone the next morning.
You kept to your routine everyday; make yourself breakfast, hide away in the living room if Brock was out while reading or painting, have lunch, go through a list of movies your father recommended, take a small nap, make dinner, wash up, and go to bed.
Days that you found Brock roaming the halls and kitchen talking on the phone in a low voice, you found yourself hiding in your room until he went to bed for the night.
It was the same, everyday for two years, nothing more. On some days you would venture out of the penthouse, looking to buy more paint supplies, or another book, but Jack Rollins always loomed over your shoulder. Even when you just needed a chocolate bar down at the bodega, or even a breath of fresh air, he was always close to you. It wasn’t all too bad, though.
It could have been worse.
“Dad!” you exclaimed happily, jumping into your father’s arms as he made his way into the penthouse. His arms wrapped around you, hugging you to his chest and he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Oh honey, I missed you so much.” he said into your hair, tightening his hold on you. “I wish you would come visit me.” he said with a sad smile, and you felt your insides twist. A wave of guilt washed over you and you offered him a small smile.
“I know, I’m sorry.” you said, but he shook it off, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve been meaning to call, but I didn’t know if you were busy or not.” you said, but you knew your father all too well. He always chose you over work, even when you were in high school and he attended one of your sports matches.
“I’m never too busy for you, honey.” There it is.
Footsteps sounded through the hall, and a booming voice yelled, “Stark!”, and soon enough, your husband made his way next to you. “So glad you can make it. How’s business? Hopefully booming as usual.” You tightened your hold on his waist, nuzzling your cheek into his chest, almost wanting to be engulfed in your father’s embrace. His hand rubbed your shoulders tenderly.
Your father pulled away from you, reluctantly holding his hand out for Rumlow to shake. “Business is good as usual. Just missing my baby girl is all.” he ripped his hand out of Rumlow’s, and wrapped you in a side hug.
Rumlow laughed, pretending to care, but you knew it was forced. Everything about dinner tonight was going to be forced. Stories, smiles, laughs. Anything to deceive your father from the ‘happy’ life you painted over as a facade.
“Sir,” Jack Rollins stepped into the foyer of the penthouse, phone in his hand as he looked towards Rumlow. “you have an urgent call waiting.” Rumlow nodded towards him and looked back at you.
“Excuse me for a moment. Y/n, my darling, why don’t you go ahead and take your father to the dining room. I’ll only be a moment.” And with that, Rumlow disappeared down the hall, following Rollins down the dark hallway.
Your father looked back at him, a brow raised while he looked at you, giving you a look. You nervously smiled, running a hand through your hair. You led him to the dining room and walked over to the bar, pouring a glass of whiskey for him. “What?”
“Does that happen very often? Take calls before dinner time?”
Truth be told, you hardly had dinner with your husband. You hardly ate with him in general, only at big events that required you to dress up. Some days you never saw him until the late hours of the day when he would slither into the bed. Some nights, when he was feeling curious, he would reach his cold palm and place it against your shoulder, but you always shrugged him off. Something about the way he touched you, like he was obligated to do so.
“Not very often, no. But I think he has a big business trip coming up in a couple weeks. So he’s been a little more stressed than usual.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, you had overheard Jack in the hallway, barely catching the words ‘trip to Chicago’. Not that you minded, you would have the whole penthouse to yourself.
Your father merely hummed and you handed him his drink. “So, how is everything? H-how is James?”
“Everything is great, sales are doing good. Easier now that Rumlow is off my back.” you managed a smile. “As for James, he’s doing good. I just had dinner with him and his mother a few weeks ago and he’s doing his own thing now.” your father said, placing his palm over one of the chairs.
Your father had a close partnership with the Barnes’ ever since you could remember. George Barnes and your father always seemed to be in close proximity, there wasn’t a moment during your life where you wouldn’t find them standing next to each other.
You were taken by Winnifred Barnes’ motherly nature, as she always helped you with the things that your father couldn’t. Whether it was advice, or just a question about what technique was better when using a curling iron, you always made your way to her.
You found affinity in Rebecca Barnes. You weren’t close enough with her as you’d like, seeing as she spent most of her days in a boarding school across the world to study art. But when she would find herself back in New York, or when you and your father accompanied the Barnes’ to their estate in Romania for a gala, you would find yourself in her company. Most of the time, you had a book in your hands, and Rebecca sat with a sketchbook in her lap, drawing whatever she could get her eye on.
James Barnes, however, was different. The Barnes’ family member who you were the closest with. Having met in school at a young age, you found yourself practically attached to his hip. Bucky, as you’d called him since the day you met, found himself searching for you any moment your fathers’ would settle down for a business meeting. A meeting that would usually take hours. But Bucky always knew how to entertain you. Sometimes he presented you with a new book, and other times the two of you would sit and listen to music.
You still continued to read well into your high school years, but by then Bucky had driven you through the city, stopping anywhere that caught your eye. He knew how to make the best of a boring day, and he even knew how to make your crappy days better. He knew all the things that would cheer you up, and you knew the same about him.
You knew about his secret love for fantasy books, how much he hated watching old romantic movies, how much he loved the sweet taste of cheese pastries from Romania. How he took his coffee, how much he despised tea, even though you adored tea. You even knew how to cheer him up on his bad days; rereading The Hobbit under white fairy lights while snacking on candy you swiped from the kitchen.
You had even loved him at some point, more than a friend.
But that was years ago, and you were unfortunately married to his rival. Fate appeared to not be at your side, as you would give anything to replace Brock with Bucky. Nevertheless, James wouldn’t be with you. Wouldn’t want to be with you. Not you, the woman who carelessly and helplessly gave herself to the enemy.
“He was asking about you. Asked how you were.”
Your eyes shot to his. “What… what did you tell him?”
Your father merely shrugged, taking a sip of his drink before placing it on the table. “I told him that you were good. Still reading and painting just like before. I think he misses you.”
You nibbled on your bottom lip, nodding as you intently listened to your father. There was a part of you who missed him dearly. He would have known how to make your days feel better, how to make everything okay.
“Oh, reall-”
“Apologies, Stark. Business never dies, I’m sure out of all the people, you would understand the best.” your husband’s voice carried through the dining room as he appeared at the doorway.
The thoughts of James quickly left your mind, slipping out like a piece of paper caught in a windstorm. Brock made his way over to you and pulled you out of your seat by your hand, pressing a kiss to the back of your palm. It was wet and sloppy, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a grimace.
“Yes, I suppose I do.” your father said. He pulled out a chair for you just as the chefs came into the room, and you took a seat, glancing at your husband who sat at the head of the table. Your father rested himself next to you.
Dinner went on as fast as you hoped; your father and Brock were caught in a heavy discussion about their business’, new partners, old partners, but you kept your complete focus on your plate, pushing around your food. Your mind kept going to James and the many visits you took to Romania, no matter how hard you tried to push him away from your thoughts.
The crisp Romanian night nicked at your skin, even through the thin sleeves of your dress. You hugged yourself tighter, hoping to warm yourself, though it didn’t help in the slightest. A yawn passed through your lips, and you pressed your face into your shoulder, leaning over the stone railing.
Looking ahead, you sighed, relishing at the stairs that painted the sky. Romania was truly a beautiful country, seeing as you and your father visited every February and almost every summer along the Barnes’ for their parties and celebrations in their homeland.
You never complained; you spent almost every moment you could outside in the countryside, a book in hand as you laid on the grass. Bucky would always be snoozing off on the blanket with an arm slung over his eyes, so you would just have the sounds of nature; the birds chirping and wind lightly rustling through the leaves.
“I had a feeling you were out here.”
You turned at the sudden voice, smiling as you saw Bucky walk towards you. He stood next to and mimicked you, leaning over the railing. You hummed. “You okay?” he asked and you nodded.
“I’m just tired. I told dad that I would be waiting for him outside, but I think he got swept into a deep conversation,” you said. A shiver racked through you and you hugged yourself tighter, blowing out a breath. “Visiting Romania and skipping school is cool and all, but sometimes these parties are so boring, Bucky.” you whine playfully, and Bucky chuckled, shrugging off his blazer.
“Well, it could be worse,” he said as he placed it gently over your shoulders and slid your arms through the sleeves. “You could be stuck here alone. But alas, you have me.” You giggled as you shoved your hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Maybe I can find Happy, and ask him to take you back to the estate.”
You shook your head, “No, that’s okay. Like you said, I have you to keep me company.” you gave him a tired smile.
He bumped his hip into yours, reaching into his slacks pocket to pull out a bag of sour candy, one he’d bought at the airport when he arrived. He opened it and offered you some, to which you stuck your hand in the bag and pulled out a handful.
“Maybe tomorrow, since they have that big meeting at noon, I could take you into the small villa and we could get some lunch. There’s a ton of small bookstores that we can check out too.” he offered, and you bobbed your head up and down excitedly. “Plus I’m fluent in Romanian.”
You playfully smacked his arm. “I’ve been practicing! I’m also taking Italian, might I remind you.”
“Excuses, Miss Stark. Excuses.” he said and you giggled, sighing as you leaned into his embrace. “So, are you okay with the villa tomorrow?”
“That sounds like fun.” you said with a smile, and you took a bite of the candy. Bucky looked down at you with a gentle smile and nodded his head.
The two of you stood there for almost half an hour quietly talking about the remaining days of the trip before you heard footsteps against the marble floors, and the door suddenly opened. Bucky glanced over, seeing both his and your father whispering to each other before facing the two of you.
“Oh, there you are, honey. Sorry, I didn’t mean for the conversation to take that long.” your father hurriedly walked over to you, shoving his phone deep into the jacket of his tuxedo.
“It’s okay.” you said, stifling a yawn against your elbow. Before your father could say anything, both his and George’s phones chimed at the same time. You had to suppress the groan that was in your chest, but Bucky could see how defeated your shoulders looked.
Bucky placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing your muscles lightly. “You know what, since you have business to attend to, why not have Happy drive us back to the estate, that way we’re not hanging here, causing trouble?” Bucky offered and you saw George throw you a small smile before clapping his hand against his son’s shoulder.
“I am tired, Dad.” you said, gesturing to Bucky’s jacket that hung loose off your frame. Your father nodded and called for Happy.
He pulled you in for a hug and placed a kiss on your cold forehead. “Text me when you get there, okay?” You nodded and kissed his cheek.
“Good night, Mr. Barnes.” you said softly, nodding at him.
“Good night, dear. Get some rest.” He turned to Bucky once you were out of earshot. “Taking her to the villa tomorrow?” Bucky nodded. “Have fun and stay vigilant. You never know who’s lurking around.”
Bucky laughed and shook his father’s hand, patting your father’s shoulder. “Yes sir. I’ll make sure the house is secured if you’re not back by the time I head to bed.”
“Attaboy, James. Go on and get out of here. Have a good night, son.”
Bucky nodded and made his way inside the building, looking around to see you near the front doors, patiently waiting for him. The sight of you nearly made Bucky melt; his black blazer over your dress that ended just above your knees, your black flats and messy braid from the day's event. Your eyes were saggy, proof that exhaustion had seeped into your body.
He quickly walked over to you and led you out to where Happy was waiting. He opened the door for you and slid into the seat next to you. The car began to move through the Romanian city and you found yourself on the edge of sleep. The comfy seats and warm atmosphere felt like a blanket.
You laid your head against his shoulder, relaxing against him as you let sleep overtake you. Bucky glanced down at you and smiled, leaning his cheek against the top of your head, looking out of the window and up at the stars.
“Y/n?”
You blinked your eyes and looked over to your husband, who looked at you with annoyance. “Sorry,” you muttered, running a hand through your unkempt hair.
“Coffee, Stark?” Brock offered, but your father shook his head. He patted your hand, pushing up from his seat.
“I should head home. Got an early day tomorrow.” You stood up with him, guiding him over to the doorway. You glanced around at Brock, but his focus was entirely on his phone. You walked your father to the front door, and you saw one of Brock’s men hand him his jacket and keys.
“Promise you’ll visit soon, honey.” your father said, and you nodded your head. You wrapped your arms around him and hugged him tightly. “I do miss you.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed thickly. “I promise. I’m sorry, I’ll visit soon.” you muttered and he pulled you back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“If you ever change your mind about this, for any reason, let me know. I don’t care about the repercussions. All I care about is that you’re safe and happy.” he placed his hands on your shoulders.
You would be okay, even if you weren’t. You would adjust to it, just like you had the past five years.
“Okay.” was all you managed. He gave you a cheeky smile before he walked out of the penthouse. You closed the door and prepared yourself. You knew Brock would be annoyed with you; at your quiet demeanor.
You entered the dining room again to push your chair in and collect your plate, and just as you had predicted, Brock was at the head of the table. He looked you over and hooked his finger at you, ordering you to come up to him. Your socked feet dragged themselves against the tile as you stopped in front of him.
Brock stood up and placed his hands on your shoulders, digging his fingers into your collarbone. “There’s a gala next week for a non-profit organization. We will be attending so I suggest you find a dress, one that actually shows something.” You swallowed thickly as he moved his hands from your shoulders to your waist. “That was a good show for your daddy, darlin’. But next time, don’t space out so easily as escape to your world of make believe. You are with me until - what did the judge say? Till death do us part . Do you understand me?”
His voice dripped of malice, but you nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.” Brock mumbled and captured your lips to his, pressing a bruising kiss to your mouth. He pulled away and patted your side before leaving the dining room.
He tasted like cigar smoke and whiskey, and you longed to get the taste out of your mouth. As quickly as you could, your feet guided you to your haven, and you quickly shut the door. You flicked the small lavender lights on and took a seat on the bedded floor, pulling a photo album from your youth.
Flipping through the pages, your fingers trailed over the pictures of James, longing for your husband to be him, instead of the cruel man that sat at the far end of the penthouse. Maybe he could love and cherish you the way you wanted someone to, maybe he could take care of you when you had off days. Not force you to dress up like a doll at his expense, not ridicule you for the things you liked.
But he wasn’t. You were married to Brock Rumlow, the man who controlled half of New York City. And that was the reality of it.