25. Trust me,Don’tMila
Twenty Five
Trust me, or Don’t
Mila
T he shitty reality show blares in the background as I dig into my ice cream, a carton of salted caramel Nadia was kind enough to fetch for me. I’m grateful for her, honestly. Not every staff member in this mansion is Irina. Thank God for that small mercy.
Onscreen, some overly bronzed woman in diamonds the size of small planets is shrieking about “came from the bottom now we’re here”.
Then the front door slams, and my peace evaporates.
Rafael strides in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—and I scowl. “What are you doing here? You barely left an hour ago.”
“Is my wife not happy to see me?”
I shrug, shoving another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. Sweet and cold. So much better than him.
He sighs and crosses the room, lowering himself onto the couch beside me. My shoulders stiffen immediately, every nerve on edge.
“Look,” he says, his voice softer now. “Can we have one normal day? Just one? Where you don’t act like you’ve seen the devil when you look at me?”
I don’t bother replying, just focus on the show. But I can feel his gaze on me, waiting. There’s no getting out of this anytime soon, so maybe civility is my only option.
“What are you watching?”
“ Dubai Bling, ” I mutter around the spoon in my mouth.
“Dubai what?” His confusion almost makes me laugh.
“Just watch it,” I grumble.
He rubs the bridge of his nose but stays quiet, his attention shifting to the screen.
It doesn’t last.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice dripping with disgust.
“Don’t shit all over my TV show, Rafael.”
“I’m sorry, Kroshka , I’m trying, but it’s just so… silly.”
Onscreen, the over-dramatic wife pouts as her husband apologizes with an entire designer handbag collection. She gasps, kisses his cheek, and gushes about how love is priceless while showing off a bag worth more than most people’s organs combined.
I snort. “If you bought me something every time you pissed me off or broke my heart, I’d own the entire planet by now.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, but I don’t regret them.
“If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. I’ll give you the whole damn world, Mila. Just ask.”
“Just watch the damn show,” I mutter, turning back to the screen, pretending I don’t care that he looks like he regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.
My feet ache because of the towering heels I stupidly wore yesterday. I rest one ankle on my knee, subtly kneading the arch with my thumb.
Of course, Rafael notices. He notices everything.
“Do they hurt?” he asks.
He’s watching me, his dark eyes softer than I expect. I nod reluctantly. “The heels were too high. It’s nothing.”
Before I can even process what’s happening, his warm, huge hands grab my feet, lifting them onto his lap. My breath catches.
“What are you—”
But he doesn’t answer, just starts rubbing, his thumbs pressing into the tender spots. My muscles melt under his touch despite my brain screaming at me to pull away.
I stare at him, flabbergasted. Didn’t he marry me for revenge? To make me miserable? What the hell is he even doing right now?
I don’t want to ruin the moment by questioning it, by bringing up the ugly truth of our arrangement. So I clear my throat instead, shifting my attention back to the TV. His hands work methodically, kneading away the ache.
“Why do you call me Kroshka ?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
He pauses, his hands stilling on my foot for just a beat too long. Then he smirks, resuming his movements like the question hasn’t thrown him off. “It means ‘little one.’”
“I know what it means. I’m asking why.”
“It’s because you’re small but stubborn, it’s just a nickname. Don’t read too much into it.” Rafael murmurs.
“Irina certainly thinks so.”
“Irina means absolutely nothing,” he growls. “Everything she said is because of her jealousy. Don’t let her—”
My phone vibrates on the table, cutting him off. I glance at the screen, excitement flooding me as I see it’s Elliot.
Rafael’s jaw tightens, but I ignore him as I adjust my oversized, off-the-shoulder T-shirt and set the ice cream down on the coffee table.
“Elliot!” I answer with glee.
“Mila,” comes his warm voice. “How have you been?”
“Good, good,” I reply quickly, trying to keep my tone casual despite Rafael’s oppressive stare burning into me. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” Elliot replies. “Listen, I already put in a word for you regarding the scholarship. All I need is a bit more information from you to finalize everything.”
“Really? That’s amazing! Just text me what you need, and I’ll send it over.”
As I listen, I suddenly feel warm, firm lips pressing against the sensitive curve of my neck. My breath catches, and a shudder runs through me.
“Stop,” I hiss under my breath, trying to twist away from Rafael’s relentless attention. He doesn’t stop.
“Sorry, Elliot,” I say hurriedly, trying to refocus. “What were you saying?”
Before I can hear his reply, Rafael’s hand darts out, snatching the phone from my grasp.
“Rafael!” I snap, but it’s too late.
“Yeah, Elliot,” he growls into the phone, his voice low and dangerous. “Sorry, my wife is busy.”
Without waiting for a response, he ends the call, tossing the phone onto the couch beside me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him?”
I keep my face neutral, refusing to rise to the bait. “You told me not to work for him,” I say evenly, meeting his glare. “Which I won’t. Other than that, it’s none of your business.”
His eyes narrow, and his lips curl into a sneer. “He wants in your pants.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head as I cross my arms. “I already told you, Rafael, I won’t do anything that disrespects you. But only as long as you show me the same courtesy.”
“I don’t want you near him,” he snaps.
“And I don’t care what you want.” I step closer to him, not backing down. “You have to trust me, Rafael. Trust that I won’t do anything with him.”
“I don’t trust him,”
“Then trust me,” I shoot back. “This is a hill I’m willing to die on. Do not touch him. Do not harm him. Because if you do, I will show you how it truly feels like not to trust your spouse.”
What Rafael doesn’t know is that the second I took his last name, I made a vow: no man would ever clip my wings again. Yes, it was forced upon me, but it’s still a different name than the one that belonged to the girl who submitted to her father without question, as though she had no sense of self. That girl is gone. I refuse to become her ever again.
I climb the stairs with him trailing behind me. The tension between us is thick, crackling with unspoken words I’m too tired to deal with tonight. When I push open the bedroom door, I stop dead in my tracks.
The couch, the one I’d been sleeping on, is gone.
I whirl around to face him. “Where the hell is the couch?”
“I had it thrown out.”
“What?”
“You’re my wife, Kroshka. ”
“You keep saying that like it’s supposed to mean something.”
He ignores me. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but spouses are meant to sleep next to each other. In the same bed.”
“Ridiculous,” I mutter.
Before I can move or argue, his hands are on me, pushing my back on the bed. His lips crash against mine, and it’s like molten lava—hot, overwhelming, and consuming. His hands cup my breasts, squeezing them. He slides his hand downwards, caressing my inner thighs over the material of my sweatpants.
For a moment, I’m caught in the pull of it, drowning in the sensation. But then, like a cold splash of water, the memories hit. How he touched me like I was his possession, only to turn around and propose to my sister. How small and used I’d felt. The shame. The anger.
I wrench my head away from the kiss, breaking the connection. “I don’t want this,” I whisper.
He freezes, his breath hot against my neck, then pulls back. A storm brews in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he slams his hand against the doorframe on the way out of the room.