Usually, I'd found that cheap plastic pen an insult to my desk's dignity. But now it just lay there, a glaring mockery.
I grabbed the satellite phone irritably, thumb hovering over the screen. For one second, I actually considered calling Sasha and telling him to shut down that damn monitoring software.
But a second later, I hurled the phone back onto the desk.
I couldn't back down. If giving her "freedom" meant gambling with her life, I'd rather have her hate me.
I leaned back in the chair, staring hard at that pinkpen in the corner. Stared for a long time. Long enough for the cigar to burn down to my fingertips.
I didn't touch it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Vivienne
Day three of the cold war between Nikolai and me.
I'd locked myself in my room. The curtains were drawn tight, and only that dim reading lamp at the bedside burned day and night, blurring the line between dawn and dusk.
My laptop sat open on the bed, the half-finished chapter glowing on the screen. The cursor had been blinking in that same empty space for three days. I hadn't typed a single word.
Mary had gone home on leave. Sophia said her grandmother was gravely ill—she needed to get back to Ireland for a few days. I'd nodded. Hell, I was relieved. At least I didn't have to face those eyes full of worry and curiosity.
The study? I wasn't going back there either.
That space that once felt safe and warm had turned into a cage dripping with irony. I couldn't sit in that chair anymore, couldn't pretend nothing had happened between us, couldn't pretend he hadn't trampled my trust in the most cold-blooded way possible.
As for Nikolai—
He hadn't come to me either.
It was like that night's fight had built a transparent but unbreakablewall between us. Neither of us would bend first. Both of us were waiting for the other to break.
But I knew he wouldn't break.
That man's dictionary had never included the word "compromise."
The new housekeeper who'd replaced Mary was named Natasha. She was a typical Eastern European woman with an unsmiling face, barely spoke, but worked with ruthless efficiency.
Every mealtime, she'd roll in the cart right on schedule. My appetite had been absolute shit these past few days. Looking at that elegant food was like staring at plastic props, but to keep from actually starving to death in this gilded cage, I forced myself to choke down a few bites.
A polite tap at the door, followed by Natasha's voice. "Ms. Cole, breakfast is ready."
I sat up in bed and threw on a knit cardigan.
"Come in."
"Good morning, Ms. Cole." Natasha wheeled in the cart. She set the tray on the nightstand and lifted the silver warming dome. "Today's breakfast is French toast, bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh orange juice."
The second that lid came off, a thick wave of butter and fried bacon hit my nostrils. Normally, this would be my favorite American breakfast, but today that smell was like a fist to the gut.
My stomach lurched violently. Acid surged up my throat.
"Ugh—"
I clapped my hand over my mouth and bolted for the bathroom, not even bothering with slippers. I barely made it to the toilet before everything came up.
My stomach convulsed wildly until I'd purged every pathetic scrap of last night's dinner along with bitter bile. I collapsed onto the cold tile, gasping for air.
