Page 70 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

The light turned green, but the car didn’t move. Cars began honking behind me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the scene playing out on the sidewalk. My mother, who I’d never seen touch my father with anything resembling affection, was practically glowing as she walked hand in hand with a man who wasn’t her husband.

Garrison fucking Thatcher. The visual artist who’d been part of my childhood like background music, always there at family gatherings and dinner parties, always making my mother smile in ways that transformed her entire face. The man I’d secretly wished was my real father when I was eight years oldand desperate for someone who actually seemed to enjoy my existence.

A particularly aggressive honk from the car behind me snapped me back to reality. The driver, no longer able to wait, pulled over to the curb, and my hands shook as I fumbled for my phone.

The call connected on the second ring.

“Eleanor, honey, what’s wrong? You sound upset.”

“Where are you right now, Mom?”

A pause. Too long. Too calculated.

“I’m at the salon, sweetheart. Getting my hair done for your show tomorrow night. Is everything alright?”

The lie hit me like a physical blow. I could see her through the windshield, still standing outside the gallery with Garrison, still holding his fucking hand while she lied to my face.

“Right. The salon.”

“Eleanor, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just…I wanted to make sure you were still planning to come to the show.”

“Of course I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Another pause. “Honey, I have to go. The stylist is ready for me. We’ll talk when I get home, okay?”

The line went dead. I sat in the car, watching my mother continue her leisurely stroll with the man who’d always made her happier than her own husband ever had, and tried to figure out why I wasn’t angry.

I should have been furious. She was cheating on my father, lying to my face, carrying on an affair that could destroy what was left of our already fractured family. But instead of rage, all I felt was a strange sense of relief.

Maybe because my mother deserved to be happy. Maybe because I’d always known, on some level, that her marriage to William Beaumont was more performance than partnership.Maybe because Garrison had always been more of a father to me than the man whose DNA I carried.

Or maybe because I recognized something in the way she looked at him. The same desperate, complicated love I felt for Maxim. The same willingness to risk everything for the chance at something real.

The ride home was a blur of Chicago traffic and tangled thoughts. By the time the car pulled into the circular driveway of Maxim’s mansion, the sun had set, and my head was pounding with the effort of trying to process everything I’d seen.

Maxim was in his office, as usual, bent over a stack of papers that probably contained information about people who wanted us dead. He looked up when I knocked, his stormy gray eyes immediately focusing on my face with the kind of intensity that made my pulse quicken despite my exhaustion.

“How did it go?”

“Good. Everything’s on schedule.” I settled into the chair across from his desk, suddenly nervous about the conversation I’d been planning during the drive home. “The show is tomorrow night. Seven o’clock.”

“I know.”

“I was hoping….” I took a breath, steeling myself for disappointment. “I was hoping you’d be there.”

His expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes that meant he was about to deliver news I didn’t want to hear.

“Eleanor, I can’t.”

The words hit me harder than I’d expected. I’d known it was unlikely, known that his world didn’t allow for the luxury of attending fashion shows and playing supportive husband. But some stupid, optimistic part of me had hoped he’d find a way.

“Business?”

“Business.” He set down his pen, giving me his full attention. “There are some developments in the investigation that require my immediate focus. But I’ve arranged for additional security at the venue. You’ll have more protection than the fucking president.”

“Right. Security.”

“Eleanor….”