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“That will be all, Polina. Please prepare for departure.”

“Yes, Mr. Reznov.”

As she rushes to secure the doors and tell my pilot, Yan, that we’re ready to leave as soon as he gets clearance, I raise my glass. Olivia gives me an expectant look.

“To my deceitful bride. May she soon learn to tell the truth.”

My wife’s jaw tightens. She sets her glass down on the table that separates us.

“Don’t you want your champagne?”

“No.” She pushes her crimson lips into a pout.

“Why not?” I ask, though I know exactly why she has that petulant expression.

“Because I don’t appreciate that bullshit toast you made.”

I didn’t imagine she would. “You deny you’ve been less than honest with me?”

She drops her gaze to the floor, her lack of response an answer in itself. I suppose I should give her credit for not compounding her lies with some false protestation of innocence.

I sip my champagne and watch her closely as she turns to look out of the window. She remains stubbornly focused on the tarmac until Polina returns to collect our glasses and check we’re safely buckled in as the plane taxis to the runway.

“Was the champagne not to your liking, Mrs. Rezanova?”

Olivia turns to acknowledge her, a tight smile forming on her luscious lips.

“It gives me heartburn.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Polina gushes. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not your fault.” Olivia puts a reassuring hand on her arm. “Something else has left a foul taste in my mouth.”

Polina correctly reads the tension emanating from my bride and hurries away. Olivia returns her attention to the window. Her focus on the view doesn’t waver as the plane accelerates down the runway. It isn’t until we reach our cruising altitude and Yan announces it’s safe to get up and move around the cabin that Olivia looks at me again.

Unfastening my seatbelt, I get to my feet. I hold out a hand to her. “Come on.”

Olivia blinks twice. “What?”

“Come. With. Me.” I enunciate each word clearly since she didn’t register what I said the first time.

Olivia unclips her seatbelt and stands. She obstinately refuses the hand I offer her. If that’s the way she wants to play, so be it. Gripping her upper arm tightly, I lead her to the back of the plane. I shove her through the door into the bedroom and she stumbles to a stop. Her shoulders stiffen as she takes in the purewhite linens on the bed, scattered with blood-red rose petals. This is Polina’s doing. I’d imagine most women would see it as romantic, but when Olivia turns to me, her furious expression suggests she views it more as a taunt.

“What is this?” she demands.

Glancing past her, I shrug. “It looks like a bed.”

“Don’t be obtuse.” Her lips thin as she makes her disapproval clear. “I know it’s a bed. Why are there rose petals on it?”

“I suppose Polina thought it was romantic.”

Olivia folds her arms across her chest. “Why would it need to be romantic? Why are we even in here?”

“Now who’s being obtuse?”

Olivia’s lip wobbles, and she sucks in a breath. “Do you really plan to do it right here on the plane?”

“Do what?” I’m not letting her get away with such vagueness.