But as I lie there in the eclipse of the night, the elegant twist of my hair now loose and tangled on the pillow, I can’t quite convince myself anymore.
The revenge is still burning. That much is true.
What scares me is how much safer I felt tonight standing next to the man who is supposed to be the monster.
***
I roam around Alexey’s penthouse like a ghost who has accidentally been given the keys to a palace.
The place is still so foreign to me, even after a week of living here. Every surface gleams with quiet wealth. The pale oak hardwood that feels cool under my bare feet, the floor-to-ceiling windows that turn the city into a glittering backdrop, and furniture that looks expensive enough to make me afraid to sit on it. But it’s the library that stops me in my tracks.
I push open the heavy door and step inside, breath catching. The room is massive, two stories tall, with a wrought-iron spiral staircase leading to a narrow mezzanine. Shelves upon shelves of books line every wall. Leather-bound classics, strategy texts with cracked spines, and modern novels tucked between first editions.
A deep leather armchair sits near a reading lamp, and a low table holds a half-finished glass of whiskey and a notebook filled with Alexey’s precise handwriting. The air smells of old paper, polished wood, and the faintest trace of his cologne.
I run my fingers along the spines, feeling the texture of embossed titles. This is a room meant for thinking, for planning, for someone who values knowledge as much as power. It feels so much like him. Alexey is all those things… strategic, layered, and quietly impressive.
I pull out a worn copy ofThe Art of Warand flip through the pages, smiling faintly at the marginal notes written in neat, slanted script.
Eventually, hunger and restlessness pull me toward the kitchen.
I’ve always dreamed of having a fully stocked chef’s kitchen. Growing up, our kitchen was tiny and chaotic with mismatched pots, a stove that only worked half the time, and whatever cheap ingredients Dad managed to bring home between gambling losses.
Here, the kitchen is a dream realized. Matte-black cabinetry, gleaming white Calacatta marble counters, a six-burner gas range with a professional hood, and an enormous island with a built-in wine fridge.
I’ve noticed that every drawer is organized. Every appliance looks brand new, as if untouched.
I lose myself in the simple joy of it.
I decide on beef stroganoff. A comforting, hearty dish that feels like a real meal rather than the takeout we’ve been surviving on during late strategy nights.
I pull out tender strips of beef from the perfectly stocked fridge, along with fresh mushrooms, onions, and a carton of sour cream. The knife is sharp and balanced in my hand as I slice the onions into thin half-moons. I’m amazed at how satisfying the rhythm of chopping grounds me.
While the beef sears in a heavy cast-iron pan, filling the kitchen with a rich, savory aroma, I start the sauce. I sauté the mushrooms and onions until they’re golden and soft, then deglaze the pan with a splash of brandy I find in the liquor cabinet.
The flame flares briefly, making me laugh under my breath. I stir in beef broth, mustard, and finally the sour cream, watching the sauce thicken into a silky, creamy gravy that smells like heaven.
For dessert, I makeVatruschka,a Russian cheesecake tart I remember from one of the few happy memories of my childhood, when a neighbor lady would bring one over during holidays.
I mix farmer’s cheese with sugar, eggs, and vanilla until it’s smooth and creamy, then spoon it into a simple shortcrust pastry shell I roll out on the marble counter. I top it with a lattice of dough and slide it into the preheated oven. The sweet, tangy scent soon mingles with the savory aroma of the stroganoff, making the entire penthouse feel warmer. More like a home.
I’m humming softly to myself, stirring the stroganoff one last time and tasting for seasoning, when I feel eyes on me.
I turn, spoon still in hand, and freeze.
Alexey is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with brown eyes that have gone soft around the edges. He’s still in his suit from the gala, jacket discarded somewhere, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he’d run his fingers through it.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, cheeks heating.
“Long enough to realize I’ve been missing this,” he says, voice low and warm. “You, in my kitchen. Cooking like you belong here.”
I set the spoon down, suddenly self-conscious.
“I… I wanted to do something normal. After the gala. After everything...” I lower my head. “I’ve always dreamed of a kitchen like this. One where I could just… make dinner without worrying about the electric bill or whether the stove would work.”
He pushes off the doorway and crosses the kitchen slowly, stopping on the other side of the island. The scent of the stroganoff and the bakingvatruschkafills the space between us.
“It smells incredible,” he says. His gaze drops to the tart cooling on the counter, then back to me. “Vatruschka?”
