Page 11 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Russet

M y husband kissed my forehead before he left this morning. It’s the first time he’s done something like that. Something sweet.

He went on his merry way, off to class. I lingered in bed, naked, cold, and thoroughly disgruntled.

I think he’s actually pleased with the idea of me being friends with his mother. As if I want anything to do with Yelena.

My nipple hurts at the thought of her and my teeth grind. It’s not like I told him what happened. He wouldn’t believe me anyway.

A whole five minutes went by before Olga strolled into the bedroom without knocking. She went straight to the closet, picked out an outfit, and started the shower for me. If I’m honest, I didn’t want to get out, but the woman walked in not caring about privacy, and told me to hurry up.

Yelena likes an early lunch, and with gridlocked traffic, it took us ages to get to the fancy restaurant she frequents.

I smooth down the long silk skirt Olga paired with a violet sweater.

I don’t complain about the cashmere, but I miss my jeans and hoodies.

It used to be I only got dressed up when I bartended at a high-flying hotel or for a girl's night.

This, every day I must look nice , is doing nothing for me. I want to rot in bed.

Sergei opens the door for me. My heels clack against the tile as I enter.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

The host smiles like he understands how awe-inspiring the architecture is.

But I’m talking about the desserts on display right inside the lobby.

People are snapping photos, it’s so brilliant. There’s every type of cake imaginable, all three-tiered. Chocolate, vanilla, pistachio. The icing swirls delicately and there’s different tiers of macrons and cupcakes.

I inhale the sugar, my mouth watering.

Okay, if I get to eat one of these things, maybe lunch won’t be so bad.

Yelena is already seated and for a second I think she won’t bother to stand.

With the smallest of sighs, she does, tucking a white blonde strand of hair behind her ear.

She’s regal, in a sweater and skirt similar to mine.

She pulls it off better, with her impeccable makeup and styled hair.

Dainty gold jewelry dangles around her wrist and neck.

She presses a kiss on each of my cheeks, my toes curling in my heels to keep me from rearing back like I want to.

“Do you know Marissa well?” She stabs a piece of lettuce. The conversation is a stilted affair, frequently lapsing into silence when Yelena stares off with a bored expression.

Maybe I’m slow, but I’m starting to understand how attached I’ll always be to Marissa. I could explain to these people a thousand times that I used to go out of my way to avoid her. Kept my head down as she terrorized the neighborhood I grew up in .

That caveat doesn’t matter, though.

I’m the last-minute bride Marissa substituted on the day her daughter should’ve married into bratva royalty. Even if I stay married to Max for sixty years, the story will never go away.

And even worse? Marissa won’t go away.

Sergei never leaves my side when I go out, but that hasn’t stopped me from seeing faces from my past. Gloria’s never reappeared, but I know it’s a matter of time. They’ll pressure me into getting intel and my worst fear is they’ll use Daisy to do so.

“I don’t know Marissa well.” I take a sip of water. Cucumber floats in it.

Yelena makes some little huff under her breath. “Olga says you get no visitors.”

I know Olga watches me; I’m not a simpleton. But I admit, I’m slightly taken aback by how much information she feeds to Yelena. I thought her spying went to Maxim, but maybe not.

“I don’t have much family,” I respond. And I’m not getting people involved in this crazy new life.

Another pout of the lips. “She says you don’t exercise very much. You need to or you’ll get fat.”

There’s a pointed look implying her last word should be ‘fatter’.

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

Blue eyes narrow at my perceived mocking tone. A waiter carries a slice of cake to the table beside us and I can’t take my eyes off it. I deserve one for having to deal with this.

Color me unsurprised when Yelena rolls her eyes. She pays for the meal, which consisted of two of the most boring salads ever made, and then simply says she’ll see me next week.

If she hadn’t walked me to the front, I might consider getting a dessert to go, but her eyes watch me like a hawk .

Get the damn cake. It’s Daisy’s voice, clear as day. My heart couldn’t squeeze tighter unless someone placed it in their fist.

“Can you pull over?” I ask Pavel ten minutes later. I’m sick of sitting in traffic and I’m sick of sitting at home. Pavel and Sergei share a look like always but the latter shrugs. “It’s fine,” I tell Sergei when he opens my door and I slip out. “I just need to walk.”

He says nothing, following a respectful distance behind. We’re blocks away from the penthouse, but it’s a straight shot. I’ve not explored my new neighborhood and I stare into every storefront, but I don’t take anything in.

Sergei coughs. When I glance back, he jerks his head toward a building. “Mr. Zimin enjoys spending time there.”

It’s a bookstore, spanning multiple floors. I’m not a reader like Max but I’m impressed. This is the type of store a bookworm wants to get lost in.

I wander in, the place busy with tourists and readers alike. I go down each aisle, idly staring without processing what’s in front of me. Occasionally, I’ll finger a book and part of me wonders why Sergei knows more about Max than I do.

Dear Daisy, I write in my head. I’ve thought about trying to slip her a letter, but I’m not sure how or what would happen if it got confiscated.

But I write them constantly, my own private conversations with my best friend.

I’m married to a man that fucks me a lot.

I know you’d say it’s better than being married to a man that doesn’t fuck a lot.

And then you’d probably tease me about being a nasty girl.

But do you remember Will from eighth grade and how I spent weeks trying to figure out how to get him to talk to me?

Daisy, how do I get my husband to talk to me?

Do I want Max to talk to me?

Yes. I think the answer is yes.

Max went into this marriage knowing it was a political union. Maybe he never cared about building a partnership or getting to know me. I can’t quite imagine Lev and Yelena spending time in deep conversations. I don’t know if Yelena is capable of it.

I’ve come to a section of cookbooks. Celebrity chefs smile on some of the covers. I stop at one with a three-tiered cake, my mouth watering at the picture.

I love sugar, but I’m not a baker.

I’m almost out of the section when I turn on my heel and march right back to the cookbook. I flip it open, reading the table of contents. Cakes, cakes, and more cakes. There are a few cookie recipes thrown in and a parfait.

Go ahead, Yelena. Mock and fat shame me all you want but this isn’t the early 2000s. I’m not going to sit there and take it. I’m going to make every damn recipe in this book. And I’m going to make the biggest fucking mess possible and make Olga clean it up.

I practically stomp to the cashier, flinging it at the poor woman.

“You have any allergies, Sergei?” I ask, slipping my wallet out of my coat pocket.

He keeps his face straight, his arms clasped in front of him. “No, ma’am.”

“Great.”