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“Watch it, Ben,” Pyotr grumbles. “This is my wife you’re talking to.”
Ben quickly corrects his smile and gives me a humble bow of the head, a sudden chill in the air. “Mrs. Antonov. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I say in English. It’s been a while since I’ve had to speak the language, so it feels strange against my tongue.
The lobby is just as grand as the outside. Everything’s polished and clean. A mosaic is designed into the floor, a gorgeous sweeping pattern of flowers in white and blue pieces set beneath shiny resin. There’s even an indoor water feature, complete with a front desk manned by a concierge. Pyotr guides me toward a set of elevators. Once we’re inside, he scans a key fob to the reader attached to the elevator panel. It beeps, a little red light flashing green.
“I’ll have my personal assistant get you a copy,” he says. “You’ll need your own to access the building.”
“Fancy,” I say, genuinely impressed. This place is so high-tech, it’s enough to make my head spin. I suppose I should expect nothing less from the CEO of a cybersecurity company.
Pyotr and I ride to the top floor, the elevator opening directly into his living room. My eyebrows shoot up when I see the sheer size of the place. His home is palatial, fit for a king. Mother’s summer home, which she touted as her own personal mansion, can’t even compare.
I step into the living room, my jaw dropping. I’m surrounded by warm brown walls and soft beige carpeting. The windows facing south extend from floor to ceiling, offering a gorgeous view of Central Park. To my left, there’s a massive shelf filled to the brim with books, complete with a rolling ladder made of brass to reach the texts on the highest shelves. A large electric fireplace across from an off-white L-sectional is big enough to fit at least ten people.
What captures my attention, though, is the beautiful grand piano set off to the side. A Steinway. Its lid is closed, its keys covered. While this place is relatively spotless, I can still see the faint buildup of dust blanketing its surface. I’m not sure if Pyotr actually plays or if the instrument is of a more decorative nature.
While I roam the space and take in my new surroundings, I’m more than a little aware of the weight of his gaze. He stands off to the side, his arms crossed, but he says nothing. He doesn’t hurry me along; neither does he ask for my opinions.
I decide to speak first. “Your home is lovely.”
“This whole bottom floor is yours to use as you see fit.”
I gawk. “You mean there’s more to this place?”
“Three levels. I live on the top floor. The bottom one is yours.”
“And the middle?” I ask dryly. “Do you need that much of a buffer zone?”
Pyotr shakes his head. “No, that’s where my brother lives. Luka. I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually. He’s effectively nocturnal, so you might not see him much.”
“Your brother lives with you?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“More like he’s too lazy to find his own place, so he’s decided to crash mine indefinitely.”
“I see.”
“He won’t be a bother, though.” Pyotr steps towards the narrow hallway table just to his left and pulls open its drawer. He reaches in and pulls out a pristine white box. “This is your new cell phone,” he says, setting it on the table’s surface without looking at me. “Again, yours to do with as you see fit. My assistant is currently in the process of setting up your new bank accounts and—”
“Bank accounts?” I echo in surprise.
“I meant what I said. Now that you’re my wife, it’s my responsibility to provide for you. All I ask is you don’t cause me any more trouble.”
I stare at him, caught between disbelief, disappointment, and anger. I’m none too pleased with the idea of this marriage, but holy hell does he have to be so clinical about it? It’s obvious he’s a businessman through and through. Even his marriage is a deal to be negotiated and agreed upon.
“Ground rules,” he continues flatly. “You’re to use English from here on out. I was assured you speak fluently, correct?”
I cross my arms and mirror his posture. “Da, no pochemu?”Yes, but why, I ask in Russian, just because I like seeing the vein at his temple throb.
“Because you speak too fast for me to read…”
I strain to hear him. “What?”
Pyotr gives me a hard look. “It’s for the benefit of the interview. The easier it is to communicate with the immigration officer—”
“Fine,” I snip.
He sighs. “Second, you are free to go wherever you like—”
