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I almost choke to death on my own spit. Even when I manage to avoid that grim fate, the surprise of those three little words is like a sledgehammer to the stomach.
I plummet to a seat on the floor, my back resting against the bedpost. “Wait, what? Elena was his ex-wife?”
“Yep-yep. According to Erica in H.R.—er, I mean, a source that shall remain nameless—they were married for a few years. She used to come around the office sometimes. According to my source—who is definitely not Erica in H.R.—she was a cute little thing. Blonde and blue. Innocent, sweet. They got married pretty young.”
My vision goes blurry as I stare off into space. “I had no idea. Did he—did she… Was it a bad split?”
Syrah draws in a slow breath that sends nervous tingles running up and down my spine. “I… I guess you could say that. She died.”
Oh, God.
I have three distinct and related thoughts in quick succession. The first: That must have been hard on Dmitri.
The second: No wonder he’s so damn protective.
The third (and no, I’m not proud of this one): How am I supposed to compete with his dead wife?
“Wren?”
“I’m—” I gulp to wet my parched throat and try again. “I’m here.”
“Is everything alright?” I hear the rustle of motion as she leans in closer. “Why do you care so much about all this?”
The “it’s none of your business” part is implied.
“I was just curious, that's all.”
“Oh. Okay.” Another rustle. Another crackle of brief static. “Because for a second there… no, never mind.”
“No, go ahead. Tell me.”
It can’t be any worse than what I’m already thinking about myself, so she might as well.
Syrah laughs awkwardly. “For a second there, I thought you might be catching feelings for Dmitri.”
It feels like my insides are shriveling up. “Definitely not.”
“Good. Because, I mean, he’s taken. Like, extremely taken. There’s no point pining after a man you can’t have.”
Cringe. It’s total and complete, head to toe, inside to out. Devastating, really.
“Totally,” I say in the breeziest voice I can muster up. “That’d be so dumb, right? Don’t worry. I’m not. But, er, yeah, anyway, thanks for the info, Detective Mehra. Talk soon?”
“Oh, yeah, okay.” She sounds taken back by the abrupt goodbye, but I can’t keep up the pretense for much longer. I’m this close to a nuclear meltdown and I need to get off the phone stat. “Bye.”
I let the phone drop to the carpet as I loll my head back against the bedpost and stare up at the ceiling. Is it weird that I’m so much more insecure about Dmitri’s dead wife than I am about Bee? Maybe because, while his relationship with Bee is for show, his relationship with Elena was definitely not.
My instincts are screaming at me. They’re saying, There’s no place for you in his world. He made space for a woman once, and she’s dead now.
Who are you to think you could replace her?
Who are you to even try?
That evening, I’m in the living room pretending to read a book when the elevator doors announce Dmitri’s arrival. I don’t have to accidentally-slash-on purpose run into him, because he seeks me out first.
“How are you feeling?” he rumbles as he darkens the doorway. He keeps his distance, and the pathetic part of my brain immediately starts wondering if that’s on purpose. If he knows what I’ve poked into and if he hates me for it.
“Fine,” I say as flatly as I can. “I rested most of the day.”
