Page 18

Behind me, I hear the soft click of the terrace door closing. Mikhail's gone, but the lingering scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something distinctly masculine—tells me he was there, listening. Watching. Waiting.
And despite everything, despite knowing exactly who and what he is, I find myself wondering what it would be like to break through those walls he's built. To discover if there's anything left of his heart beneath the scars.
The thought terrifies me more than his reputation ever could.
I close my eyes and let the wind tangle through my hair, trying to banish the image of his hands—scarred knuckles and elegant fingers that could probably kill with the same precision they'd used to slide the wedding ring onto my finger. There's a darkness in me that responds to his dangerous magnetism, a traitorous flutter in my chest whenever he enters a room.
Days blur together in this marble mausoleum he calls home. I wander the halls like a ghost, fingertips trailing along imported Italian wallpaper, bare feet silent on Persian rugs worth more than most people's homes. The staff—a rotating cast of silent sentries—nod respectfully but keep their distance. They knowwhat I am: another acquisition in Dmitri Zhukov's collection delivered gift-wrapped to his son.
Sometimes, I catch glimpses of Mikhail through the crack beneath his office door—the amber glow of his desk lamp burning late into the night, the low rumble of his voice conducting business in rapid-fire Russian. He speaks to his associates with clipped authority, but I remember how his accent softened when he said my name at the altar. "Kira." Like a prayer or promise.
Or perhaps a threat.
This morning, I found a single white orchid on my breakfast tray. No note, no explanation. When I asked Elena, the housekeeper, she merely shrugged with practiced ignorance. But I know it was him. The gesture feels delicate and beautiful yet somehow ominous.
I lift the flower and inhale its subtle fragrance. In the distance, storm clouds gather over the East River, painting the sky in shades of pewter and charcoal. The air grows heavy with electricity, matching the tension that thrums through my veins whenever I think of my brutal husband.
My father called this a marriage of convenience. But nothing about Mikhail Zhukov feels convenient. He's all sharp edges and hidden depths, a puzzle I'm not sure I want to solve.
Yet here I am, counting the hours until he returns home, my pulse quickening at the thought of those ice-blue eyes finding mine across the dinner table we've yet to share.
The first drops of rain patter against the terrace glass as I retreat inside, abandoning my cold tea and racing thoughts. Lightning flashes, illuminating the penthouse in stark white before plunging it back into the shadows. I count—one, two, three—before thunder rolls across the sky, vibrating through the floorboards beneath my feet.
Three seconds. The storm is close.
I pause at the threshold of Mikhail's office, drawn by a sliver of light beneath the heavy oak door. My fingers hover over the polished brass handle, trembling slightly. What would happen if I simply walked in? Would he look up from his work with those glacier eyes, annoyed at the interruption? Or would something else flicker across his face—surprise, perhaps even pleasure?
I let my hand fall away. Not today.
In the kitchen, I find Elena preparing dinner, her knife moving with practiced precision through vibrant red peppers. The rhythmic chopping stops when she notices me.
"Mrs. Zhukov," she says, the title still jarring to my ears. "Mr. Zhukov called. He will be home for dinner tonight."
My stomach tightens. "What time?"
"Seven o'clock." Her eyes, dark and knowing, scan my face. "He requested the private dining room be prepared."
Not the cavernous formal dining room where we could sit at opposite ends of a table built for twenty, but the intimate space overlooking the city. My pulse quickens traitorously.
"Thank you, Elena." I turn to leave, then hesitate. "The orchid this morning..."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Mr. Zhukov has them flown in from Thailand each week. His mother loved them."
The information settles in my chest like a small, warm stone. A glimpse behind the curtain, unexpected and somehow more intimate than if Mikhail had handed me the flower himself.
Upstairs in my bedroom—my separate bedroom—I stand before the closet that Elena has meticulously filled with designer clothes I never chose. Each garment feels like another decision made for me, another reminder of my new role as Mikhail Zhukov's possession.
The storm intensifies, rain lashing against the windows as I select a simple black dress. Not too formal, not too casual. Armor of a sort.
In the bathroom, I let hot water cascade over my skin, washing away the day's thoughts. Steam rises around me like Manhattan fog, and I close my eyes, trying to remember who I was before I became a chess piece in this game between powerful men.
But instead of memories, I see Mikhail's face—not the cold mask he wears in public, but the unguarded expression I caught when he thought I wasn't looking. Something haunted lived in those eyes, something that recognized the cage around me because he inhabits one of his own.
At precisely seven, I descend the curved staircase, my heartbeat a countdown in my ears. The private dining room is bathed in soft lighting, and the table is set for two with crystal and silver. Beyond the windows, lightning illuminates the storm-washed city in electric blue flashes.
And there he stands, his broad back to me, silhouetted against Manhattan's storm-dark skyline. He's shed his suit jacket, his white shirt stretched across shoulders that carry the weight of his father's empire. A glass of amber liquid dangles from fingers marked with scars I long to ask about.
He turns, sensing me before I make a sound, and those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine. For one breathless moment, the masks slip—both his and mine—and I glimpse something raw and hungry in his gaze that makes my skin flush hot despite the air-conditioned chill.