Page 71 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

“It’s fine.” I stood up quickly, not trusting myself to have this conversation without saying something I’d regret. “I understand. This is more important.”

“You’re what’s important.”

“Then be there.”

The challenge hung in the air between us, loaded with all the things we hadn’t said, all the ways this life was harder than either of us had anticipated. I could see the conflict in his face, the war between duty and desire that I was starting to understand was a permanent feature of loving someone in his world.

“I can’t,” he repeated, and the finality in his voice told me the decision had already been made.

“Okay.”

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me at the door.

“You don’t look well.”

I paused, my hand on the doorknob. It would be so easy to tell him about seeing my mother with Garrison, about the lie she’d told me, about the way my entire understanding of my family was shifting like sand beneath my feet. But I was tired of being the wife who brought him problems, who added to the weight he was already carrying.

“Just tired,” I said without turning around. “It’s been a long day.”

“Eleanor.”

“I’m fine, Maxim. Really.”

I escaped to our bedroom—the one I’d moved into permanently after the shooting—before he could push further, before the conversation could become something that required honesty I wasn’t ready to give. I needed time to think, time to figure out what my mother’s affair meant for all of us, time to decide if I was strong enough to handle another family secret.

***

The next morning brought chaos in the form of final preparations, last-minute vendor calls, and the kind of controlled panic that preceded every major event. I threw myself into the work, grateful for the distraction, for the excuse to avoid thinking about anything that didn’t involve hemlines and lighting cues.

My mother called around noon, her voice bright with forced cheerfulness.

“Darling, I’m so excited for tonight! Is there anything you need me to do?”

“Actually, there is.” I took a breath, jumping into the deep end before I could lose my nerve. “I want you to bring Garrison.”

Silence. The kind of silence that screamed guilt and panic and a dozen half-formed excuses.

“Eleanor, I don’t know what you—”

“Mom.” I raised my hand even though she couldn’t see me, the gesture automatic and final. “I saw you yesterday. Outside the gallery on Michigan Avenue. Holding hands.”

A sharp intake of breath, followed by more silence.

“I’m not angry,” I continued, and realized I meant it. “If anything, I’m happy for you. You looked happier than I’ve seen you in years.”

“Eleanor….” Her voice was small, uncertain in a way that made my chest tight.

“Are you leaving him? Dad?”

Another pause, longer this time.

“It’s complicated, sweetheart.”

“No, it’s not. Either you’re done with that toxic fucking marriage, or you’re not. Either you’re choosing happiness, or you’re choosing to stay miserable for the sake of appearances.”

“You don’t understand….”

“Then help me understand. Because right now, all I see is my mother finally finding someone who treats her like she matters, and I can’t figure out why that would be a bad thing.”