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Sunlight seeps into the room,its rays piercing through the open curtains in sharp, golden streaks. I reluctantly open one eyelid, confirming Maxim is no longer in the bed, before opening my eyes fully.
Before going to sleep, I built a pillow barrier between us to maintain some semblance of personal space, a feeble line of defense in a situation where I felt utterly defenseless. The barrier did its job because I had no sense of Maxim beside me. I thankfully fell asleep well before he turned in.
Slipping out of the stupidly comfortable bed, the first thing I notice is a note on the nightstand beside where I sleep.
Nadya has reviewed your wardrobe and removed any unfitting items.
- M
Charming. As if I needed another reminder of the gem I married. My restful night's sleep is now a distant memory, replaced by a wave of irritation.
I make my way to the bathroom and take in my reflection in the mirror. I look disheveled. My hair is a rat's nest after that asshole drenched me in ice-cold water and then chased me through the corridors of his mansion. With the first few buttons of Maxim's oversized dress shirt undone, it looks like I had a lot more fun last night than I actually did.
I may not have had fun, but I nearly had an orgasm. I blame it on the heightened tension and nerves. Not on the thread of desire that unspooled when Maxim chased me through his house, forced his leg between my thighs, and?—
Nope. Stopping that thought right there. Instead, I focus on my sour mood as I enter the glamorous walk-in closet and confirm that Nadya did, in fact, get rid of most of my wardrobe. Some of the clothes I purchased with Liza remain, but that’s pretty much it.
Maxim’s side of the closet is exactly what one would expect from a control freak. Designer suits hang in neat rows by shade. Next to them are racks of crisply pressed dress shirts in whites, blacks, and muted colors, organized with an attention to detail that borders on obsessive. The far end is dedicated to a collection of leather shoes, from Oxfords to loafers, each pair polished to a sheen and all looking more expensive than my entire wardrobe. Definitely signs of an obsessive-compulsive personality.
Not that it comes as a surprise. But it does give me an idea. I'm alone, surrounded by Maxim’s personal belongings. Maybe he has a diary or a calendar covering the dates of Masha’s death? I still can’t decide if his being in Japan is relevant or not. Either way, I’d like to know what I’m dealing with.
Yanking open the top drawer of his mahogany dresser, I find neatly folded rows of monogrammed handkerchiefs organizedby color. The next drawer down is the same story. His ties are displayed in an array that rivals a color wheel, with everything from deep burgundies to cool silvers.
Without further thought, I dip my hand into the drawer and mess up the ties, mixing up the meticulously arranged colors. This way, he’ll think I’m fucking with him rather than purposefully snooping.
I go for the bottom of the drawer next, groping along and looking for anything that’s not a handkerchief. I come up empty. My search continues—opening drawers, flipping through rows of stacked shirts, and scanning shelves—seeking anything that could be revealing. It’s strange that I haven’t come across any personal items somewhere here. A journal, a stray condom packet, a picture of his mistress… Anything.
I’m giving up hope when I open the bottom dresser drawer. There, I find perfectly organized socks in various shades of black and gray. Reaching out, I give the contents a little stir, and that’s when my fingers brush against something that is definitely not a sock. It feels like a flimsy piece of plastic.
I pull it out, revealing a faded polaroid. In it is a little boy, no more than four or five, with tousled dark hair and eyes that are unmistakably familiar. They're Maxim's eyes.
This must be Maxim as a child. He’s grinning, looking like any ordinary, carefree kid, a front tooth missing, dirt smeared across his sweet round cheeks. It’s a stark contrast to the cold, impenetrable man he is today.
Who was he before the world turned him into the man I married? What happened?
I doubt I'll ever find out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KIRA
For what feelslike the millionth time today, I find myself drifting into the forgotten sitting room at the mansion's rear, seeking a peace that’s out of my grasp. Settling by the window, I press my palm to the cool glass, staring outside at the golden carpet of fallen leaves covering the expansive grounds.
I like this room. It’s in the farthest reach of the mansion. Judging by the layer of dust and cobwebs, this room is barely used, so it's become my secret sanctuary.
It’s just me and a pint of ice cream, a box of tissue, and a smutty novel Alyona gifted me.
Today would have been Masha’s fifty-sixth birthday and, like every birthday since she passed, I'm haunted by the weight of her absence. She had a tradition of showing up at my boarding school and hauling me away for the day to do something fun. We’d go exploring art galleries, eat amazing food, and end the night with an avant-garde theater performance or something equally outrageous.
That was Masha. Bold and unconventional. She would hate that I’m moping today. She’d actually hate that I’ve spent the last few years weighed down with grief. If she were here, she’d make me change into something fabulous and call up Liza insisting we hit the town. She’d want to be celebrated, not mourned.
But how can I celebrate her when I haven’t learned a single thing about her death? I've been living under this roof for a week, and my opportunities to investigate Maxim have been nonexistent. When I suggested marriage, I thought I’d be involved in running his business, which I hoped would give me an opportunity to learn his whereabouts around the time of Masha’s capture and murder. I stupidly thought I’d be Maxim’s equal—that is so far from reality it’s almost funny. Almost.
Masha may not have condoned moping, but she definitely did condone drinking champagne in a bubble bath. So fuck it. That’s what I’m going to do.
I drag my body off the couch, when the door barrels open and the wicked witch of Moscow walks in.
Nadya. She's my least favorite person in this household. The woman looks at me with contempt for merely breathing, but Nadya is as tightly knitted into Maxim’s world as Pavel and Roman, meaning I can’t dismiss her entirely. She’ll never be a friend, but it’s worth trying to sweeten her up. Though I can't shake the feeling that, in her eyes, no woman could ever be worthy of her precious Maxim.
