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SUTTON

“The sconces need to be changed, obviously; they’re chipping away. We can replace them with something from France.”

A crash of lightning erupts overhead. Oksana doesn’t bat an eyelid as she turns to me, all dignified grace in her black wrap dress and iridescent pearls.

Spending any length of time with Oksana makes me feel like I need to up my style. Sweats and oversized t-shirts just don’t cut it anymore.

Well, her and the giant sparkler I have glistening on my finger. Four carat diamonds and pajama shorts that say “UICY” on the butt because the “J” is missing don’t exactly mix.

“The scones look fine to me.”

Oksana turns her cool gaze on me. It’s amazing how she can convey so much with just the arch of an eyebrow, the tilt of her mouth, the tightening of her jaw.

For example, the look she’s giving me right now seems to read, If you’re going to make it in this world, listen and learn, little girl.

“They’re called sconces,” she corrects.

I wrinkle my nose. “Isn’t that what I said?”

Oksana shoots me a sharp glare while I try not to burst out laughing. “Come on,” she tuts. “We need to review the other rooms before you can officially move in.”

We venture on. I’m barely paying attention, though.

It’s enough for me that Oleg went and bought the gorgeous Victorian house that I imagined raising our child in. I don’t need everything in it to be perfect.

Unfortunately, Oksana didn’t get that memo.

“Hm. A nursery.”

I rush in behind her, my jaw dropping at the sight of the beautiful mural that wraps around the entire room. It’s bright and colorful, giving secret garden vibes.

“We’ll have to paint over?—”

“No!”

Oksana twists around, her nose pinched. “‘No’?” she repeats clumsily, as though she hasn’t heard the word very often.

“It’s beautiful. Why would you want to paint over it?”

“It’s rather… feminine, don’t you think? What if you and Oleg have a boy?”

“Then I’d want my son to appreciate all color palettes and not just the gender-designated colors assigned for him by society.”

Oksana’s eyes narrow. I wonder if I’ve just eviscerated the fragile harmony that exists between us since Oleg dropped the engagement news when we docked in Palm Beach.

Then, to my surprise, she exhales and deflates. “Very well. We’ll leave this room as it is for now. Shall we move on to the other bedrooms?”

It’s not really a question. But after the emotional roller coaster of the boat journey here, and this morning’s adventure traipsing over every square inch of this house, I’m exhausted. No longer in the mood to go where I’m told and do as instructed.

“Actually,” I pipe up, “I’d like to tackle those rooms on my own. Later.” Oksana turns in the hallway to look at me again, her face already well on its way to scrunching into her trademark sneer, so I hurry to add, “There is something I want your help with. The entertaining spaces—the living and dining rooms—I need to know how to decorate them. I don’t have a clue where to start. And I don’t want Oleg to be disappointed.”

She keeps squinting for a few seconds longer before she finds whatever proof of sincerity she was looking for in my face. Only then does she nod. “Once I’m done with those spaces, he’ll have no reason to be.” She gives me a pleased smile. “You’re smart to start there. Entertaining is going to be an integral part of your life. And your marriage.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the wife of the pakhan , Sutton. That comes with hefty responsibilities. You may think that there’s nothing to being a hostess, but in fact, it’s a delicate juggling act. How you welcome your guests will set the tone for the entire night. It’ll either make them feel safe and comfortable or distant and mistrusting. You need to draw them in, earn their trust subliminally. You need to make them feel like more than just guests, more than just friends. They need to feel like family.”

There’s a certain longing in her voice that tells me that maybe a part of her misses being the Bratva wife, the gracious hostess.

“How many parties did you host when you were in this seat?”

“Ha! Hundreds.”

The thought of hundreds of nights spent refilling the drinks of men like Drew makes my stomach flip. “Did you really?”

“Oh, yes. And you will have to do the same, Sutton. In fact, there are several events coming up that will fall on your shoulders to plan.”

I’m starting to feel nauseous. I do my best to breathe through the growing panic. “Did it come naturally to you?”

“It should have. My parents hosted a lot. My mother ran many charities and my father had a lot of business dinners and parties. This lifestyle was always familiar to me. And still, I wasn’t accepted into the Pavlov family with open arms.”

“Why not?”

Her gaze floats over to one of the recessed windows that overlook the garden. At first glance, there’s not a damn thing wrong with it.

But I know enough to know that she’s examining the claw marks in the bottom righthand side of the frame. Clearly, the previous family had pets.

“A Bratva wife is a job in its own right,” Oksana explains in a hushed murmur. “I was Russian, I was from a wealthy family, I was a Pavlova. On paper, it seemed perfect. But I still didn’t have the right connections. Bogdan’s parents didn’t think I would have what it takes.”

“But you proved them wrong.”

“I made many mistakes first,” she explains, a touch of bitterness edging into her voice. “And I didn’t have anyone to rely on. You, thankfully, have me.”

I’m oddly touched by that. “I don’t want to disappoint you, Oksana,” I say honestly. “But I fear that I might.”

She raises her eyebrows. I’m not sure if she’s agreeing with me or if she’s taken back by my vulnerable admission. “Don’t waste time with fear, Sutton. It’s useless. Focus on what you can learn. If you pay attention and learn fast, there might still be hope for you yet.”

With that, she marches into the next room. I find myself trailing behind her, oddly curious about her story and her life.

“So, you and… Oleg’s dad, I’m assuming it wasn’t an arranged marriage?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

She doesn’t seem keen to divulge any more, but I can’t help myself. Now that I’ve got her talking, I can’t seem to stop myself.

“What happened?”

Oksana fusses with a piece of crown molding. “That’s a very personal question.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I just?—”

“Long story short,” she interrupts in a clipped voice, “we were very young when we married. We were na?ve and foolish enough to believe that we would love each other forever. We didn’t.”

“So… why not just end things amicably?”

“Because we had our roles to play. I had to raise the children, take care of the house, host the parties, put on a brave front for the world to see. Bogdan had an empire to run; he needed a partner he could trust—and despite the fact that we fell out of love with each other, that person was still me.”

“So you chose to stay together?”

“I don’t know if we had much of a choice,” she sighs. “This lifestyle… It takes its toll on even the strongest of couples. You need a good foundation and even then, there are no guarantees.”

My heart jumps nervously. “Is that a warning?”

“It’s my story. I’m not saying it will be yours.” She pivots in place, focusing on me for the first time since she walked into the house. “I hope it won’t be.”

“But… you don’t like me.”

Her eyes scour over me, head to toe, left to right, the same appraising way they always do. “It’s not a question of whether I like you or not, Sutton. It’s a question of whether you can be a good wife to my son, a good mother to my grandchildren. I’m growing more and more confident with the latter.”

“But not the former?”

“I see the way he looks at you,” she says by way of explanation. “He gave you a ring. That means a lot coming from someone like Oleg, who vowed he would never marry.”

“That’s only because he was punishing himself. He still blames himself for what happened, you know. To Oriana. And Elise. He thinks you hate him for it still.””

Oksana rips away so I can’t see her face. “He’s my son. I could never hate him.”

My eyes widen as I realize why she’s avoiding my gaze so studiously. “But you haven’t forgiven him completely for it, either… have you?”

Oksana sighs. In profile, I watch as her eyes flutter closed on her exhale. “Oleg is a brilliant man. But he can also be arrogant and stubborn. I told him to leave that damn engine alone. I told him a hundred times over.”

“He was so young.”

“He was old enough to know better.”

“He hates himself for it, Oksana,” I twist around, inserting myself right in front of her so that she can’t avoid me. “He hasn’t forgiven himself for it, either. But he needs to. And so do you.”

She cracks open one eye to regard me. “You really do love him, don’t you?”

I wince, color flooding my cheeks. How can I deny it? I’m wearing the man’s ring and defending his mistakes.

Of course I love him.

I just can’t bring myself to say it when I haven’t even told him yet.

“I… I want him to be happy.”

“I do, too.”

“I suppose then, that’s a start.”

Oksana’s lips curl upwards. I’ve actually managed to wrestle a smile out of her. Miracles really do happen. Either that, or hell has frozen over.

“You’re not who I would have chosen for him, Sutton, but maybe you’re exactly what he needs.”

“Do you really mean that?”

She laughs humorlessly. “You need to work on those puppy dog eyes of yours. And stop demanding approval from everyone. You’re going to be the pakhan’s wife soon. Start acting like it.”

“Alright,” I draw myself up to my full height. “Then it’s time to end this walkthrough because I’m done.”

Oksana’s eyes narrow. “Not with me.”

“Right,” I mutter immediately, deflating like a punctured balloon. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Smiling, she turns to the door. “Come on, we need to get your wedding registry sorted. Otherwise, you’ll end up with all sorts of useless junk.” She stops at the threshold and glances back over her shoulder. “I’m glad we can get along, Sutton. That will make everything a lot easier.”

I’m inclined to agree.