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“Really?” I don’t know why, but somehow, this feels like a small win. I can't resist giving Nadya a smug, triumphant glance.
"Did Nadya mention that you're expected to accompany me to a public dinner in a few hours?"
"No, not yet, Maxim. I was about to," Nadya says hastily. "Hair and makeup are scheduled for this afternoon, and a stylist from my selected list will soon bring some fitting outfit choices."
No, fucking thank you. Using one of Nadya’s stylists is where I put my foot down. If I’m going out tonight—on Masha’s birthday of all nights—I am going to make sure I look damn good. My aunt wouldn’t have it any other way.
"As much as I value your fashion advice" — I nod at Nadya’s plain gray dress while Maxim barely conceals a smirk — "I think I'll contact Liza for some stylist recommendations of my own."
“But—”
Maxim cuts her off. “Kira says she can handle it.”
Is Maxim defending me? My heart gives a little thump in my chest.
“Very well, then.”
I can feel the steam rolling off Nadya in waves, and I take that as a small win. For now. But I know whatever issues she has with me are far from resolved. This is only the opening act in what promises to be a long, drawn-out battle of wills.
Maxim adjusts his cufflinks. With a final look, he says to me, “Tell the stylist we’re going to Probka tonight. Everyone in Moscow knows the restaurant. Be ready to go by eight. And for the love of all things holy, don’t wear any piece of clothing that’s ripped, frayed, or references Joan Jett.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MAXIM
I’m jugglinga lowball of whiskey in one hand while pressing the phone to my ear with the other, when the limo pulls up to the curb beside Probka, the city's hottest new restaurant that I have a majority stake in. It's a favorite among the city's eager-to-see-and-be-seen socialites, partly due to its celebrity chef owner, Daria Amelin. It's not my usual choice, but it's exactly what I need tonight.
"All is set,” Nadya confirms on the other end of the line. “The restaurant is full, and the press has been notified. No one will miss your appearance."
I take a sip of my whiskey. Its warmth contrasts with the cool looks Kira is throwing at me from the opposite seat. When she catches my eye, she crosses her arms in front of her generous chest and averts her gaze out the window.
“Did you let Daria know?” I ask Nadya.
“I did, and she’s thrilled.” Nadya pauses, and I know what that pause is about. My wife. “I still don’t think this is a good idea. She’s still so …much,” she says with distaste. “Given sometime and training from me, I could mold her into a more suitable wife. Although, I’m afraid she’ll never be good enough for you.”
And there we have it—no woman will ever be good enough for me in Nadya’s eyes. She either has me on way too high of a pedestal or she doesn’t want to have to share the ‘lady of the house’ title with anyone else. Both, likely. I’ve spoiled her. Ever since Irina, I've kept my home a fortress—no women, no distractions. My affairs are short, to the point, and never where I lay my head.
But the idea of molding Kira, now that’s laughable.
I eye my wife carefully. There’s no question she’s a firecracker. Despite my earlier warning, she’s chosen thigh-high boots with bold stiletto heels. Yes, her black dress is simple and classic, but on her body it looks ... it looks smoking hot. It’s not so much the dress I’m thinking about but what’s underneath it.
Now that I know what she looks like naked—her generous ass, creamy thighs, her pink tinged nipples—I can’t get the vision out of my mind. It’s been a full week, and the memory of her bare skin lingers like a constant torment.
“It’s fine, Nadya,” I say, an edge to my voice. “I’ll take it from here.”
What Nadya fails to grasp is that Kira's youth and beauty are part of her public appeal. Our mismatch, our age difference—everything—works in my favor because the press is fascinated by the opposites-attract love story.
Outside the window, the paparazzi are already swarming like vultures waiting for their moment. Or rather, our moment. It's our first public outing together, a carefully planned display of post-wedding bliss. Although, from the expression on Kira’s face, no one is going to believe the bliss part.
“Is that all for us?” she asks, gesturing out the window with a frown.
“It is,” I acknowledge. “Do you think you could try and look happy when we step outside? Not like I kicked your dog?”
She frowns. “Seriously, why would you even say that? What kind of person would even think of kicking a dog?”
I huff out a laugh. “A proverbial dog. I wouldn’t kick an actual dog,” I clarify. I’ve kicked men—done a lot worse to them, in fact—but I have nothing against animals.
“You’re a modern-day saint.” She scoffs. “Anyhow, don’t worry. I’ll flash my pearly whites for the cameras.” With a sneer, Kira pastes a smile so forced it borders on comedic.
