Split

Chapter 10

10

C lara has me dress in black again for dinner tonight.

I’m not sure what to make of that after the fuss about dressing in red on my first night, but I’m too emotionally drained to put up a fight for the sake of asserting my independence. So, I just go along with it like a good wife, playing the role I’ve been ascribed to.

There aren’t any specific instructions for my hair or makeup this time, so I just apply a little bit of bronzer and mascara and sweep my hair up into a long ponytail, which actually looks killer with the one-shoulder gown she picked out for me. There’s a slit cut up the left side almost all the way to my hip, flashing an obscene amount of leg as the fabric shifts with my strides. The heels Clara selected to go with the dress are sky-high and uncomfortable as hell, but I put them on nonetheless, and when she glances over to survey my appearance as I descend the staircase and gives her nod of approval, a wave of relief washes over me.

I’m still a little shaken after the way Roman handled me in the tower today. I won’t be stepping a toe out of line during this dinner for fear of meeting his wrath. It’s become abundantly clear that my husband holds all the cards, and he won’t hesitate to make me suffer if I don’t learn to play by his rules.

Clara scurries off– presumably to resume dinner preparations– while I make my way through the halls of the first floor to the dining room. The doors are pulled open, but the room itself is still vacant. I pause in the threshold for a moment, swallowing past the lump in my throat as I stare at the place settings on the table, remembering how Roman roughly bent me over the surface last time we dined here together.

Will he force me to sit on his lap for our meal again tonight?

I clutch a hand to my chest, swaying slightly on my high heels as I fight to shore up my composure.

Play along, Eliza.

That’s all I have to do until I can find a way out of this nightmare. I’ll play the role of the good little wife that Roman wants me to be, just so I can survive long enough to find the means to escape him.

The soft sound of voices draws my attention further down the hall, and I glance in the direction they’re emanating from to find one of the doors that was locked earlier now standing ajar, a soft light spilling from inside. And because I’m far too curious for my own good, I back out of the dining room and pivot to continue down the corridor, stepping as quietly as I can in my heels as I creep up to the door and strain to hear the hushed voices from within.

One of them is definitely Roman’s– I’d recognize that deep, gravelly voice anywhere. I can’t tell who he’s talking to, but it’s apparent from the harshness in his tone that he’s arguing with whoever it is.

There’s suddenly a loud thud from inside the room and I jump, skittering away like a frightened mouse. I nearly trip over my own feet in my haste to flee down the hallway, heels clicking against the marble floor all the way back to the dining room. I dip inside the doorway as soon as I reach it, tucking around the corner to sag back against one of the doors and pressing a palm over my chest in an effort to calm my racing heart.

Though it’s difficult to hear anything over the blood pounding in my ears, I listen intently for the sound of footsteps in the hall, wilting in relief when I realize nobody’s coming after me. I take a few seconds to catch my breath, then push away from the door, crossing the room to take the seat I occupied last time. Before my husband forced me to sit on his lap and be fed like a pet, that is.

I stare down at the wooden surface of the tabletop, my fingers twitching nervously in my lap as I wait for Roman to join me. My eyes trail over the knife on the right side of my place setting, continuing up to the glass of white wine resting just above it. Decisions, decisions. After another few minutes pass, I reach for the glass and take a few big sips of wine to steady my nerves, draining half of it. Time slips by agonizingly slowly, and the wine in my glass is almost gone when my husband finally appears in the doorway, barely even glancing my way as he strides into the dining room.

Roman Volkov is the kind of man who commands a room as soon as he steps inside. There’s just this powerful aura about him that immediately draws your attention and holds it– and despite my growing disdain for my new husband, I can’t look away as he sweeps in and heads for his seat at the far end of the table, beside mine.

The first thing I notice is that he’s changed his suit– or at least the shirt beneath it. I’m certain he was wearing a black shirt earlier, but the one he has on now is a crisp white. He must change his clothes for dinner each night, too, and something about that thought endears me to him, albeit slightly.

The second thing I notice is the look on his face. His brow is furrowed, his lips pinched together in a scowl. He’s obviously mad about something, which doesn’t bode well for me if our prior interactions are anything to go by.

He takes his seat without a word, unbuttoning his suit jacket and straightening his cuffs. Then Clara breezes into the room with a plate of food in each hand, rounding the table to set one in front of Roman, the other in front of me. He doesn’t thank her– just gives a curt nod of dismissal after the food is placed before us, arranging his napkin on his lap and picking up his silverware.

His continued silence is unnerving.

I carefully lift my own napkin, my mouth watering as I take in the meal on the plate in front of me. There’s a beautiful filet of roasted salmon, spears of asparagus, and a hearty portion of whipped potatoes, sprinkled with chives. Roman has already started digging in, and after placing my napkin on my lap and lifting my fork, I start to do the same.

The silence persists, though. The scrape of our silverware against the plates is the only noise echoing through the large room, my anxiety spiking higher and higher until even my appetite is affected. I start pushing the food around my plate with my fork in an effort to appear occupied, trying to breathe past the tightening of my throat and the impending feeling of doom twisting in the pit of my stomach.

“What happened?” Roman asks, and I’m so startled to hear him speak that I flinch, snapping my head in his direction to find him eyeing the burn scars on my left bicep studiously, as if it’s his first time seeing them.

“Car crash,” I answer simply, my voice coming out strained. I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the fork in my hand as I watch his eyes skim over the mottled skin. “I know it’s ugly,” I mutter. “If you’d prefer I cover it up, I can wear sleeves.”

“I assure you that your scars don’t make you any less appealing,” he replies curtly. His gaze lifts, those piercing green eyes locking with mine. “Your attitude, however…” he trails off and I feel a blush rise to my cheeks.

“I’m working on it,” I say, quickly dropping my gaze back to my plate. “This is all new to me. I’m trying to… adapt .”

“Hm,” he grunts.

Apparently he doesn’t have anything else to say, because he falls silent again as I resume pushing my food around the plate with my fork, trying not to squirm beneath the weight of his stare burning into the side of my face.

“You need to eat,” he grumbles, evidently having noticed that I’m just playing with my food rather than consuming it. “You’re too thin.”

I glance over to meet his eyes again, clenching my jaw. “Men shouldn’t feel entitled to comment on women’s bodies.”

“And women shouldn’t starve themselves to achieve some impossible standard of beauty,” he deadpans, nodding down to my plate. “Now eat .”

His stern tone brokers no room for argument, and for the sole purpose of escaping the humiliation of being fed another meal by his hand, I comply, flaking off a piece of salmon onto my fork and bringing it to my lips.

Even though it’s delicious, my stomach twists when I swallow it down, as if it’s rioting at his directive. When I glance back over at Roman, he’s still watching me, irritation bubbling up inside me in response to his scrutiny.

I set down my fork with a gentle click, lifting my napkin to wipe the corner of my mouth. “Is my stuff ever going to come?” I ask.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“When you brought me here, you said you’d arrange for my things to be delivered,” I remind him. “They haven’t been.”

Roman stares at me for a long moment, the muscle in his tightly-clenched jaw feathering. “Is there something you’re lacking?”

“My laptop, my phone…”

“There’s a computer in the study, and there’s a phone in the hall.”

“I want my own,” I reply, unable to keep the edge of desperation out of my voice. “Plus, I’ve seen that dinosaur of a desktop you’ve got in the study. Can you even access the internet on that thing?”

He stares at me, his jaw ticking over. Then he drops his gaze to his plate with a sigh, spearing a piece of asparagus onto his fork. “Make a list,” he grumbles. “Give it to Clara, and I’ll see to it that Andrew gets you what you need.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, a whoosh of air leaving me and some of the tension draining from my shoulders. Though I’m not sure why I’m thanking him for something as simple as fulfilling his prior promise. If he’s trying to condition me to be dependent on him, it’s working.

I lift my fork again, picking at the potatoes on my plate. “Who was here earlier?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He arches a brow in my direction as he swallows his bite of food. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“When I was coming in for dinner, I heard you talking to someone down the hall,” I say nonchalantly, setting my fork down and reaching for the glass of wine. There’s only a sip left, and I swallow it eagerly, setting the empty glass back down in front of me.

“Business associates stop by from time to time,” he mutters.

I flinch as he drops his fork with a clatter, wiping his mouth off on his napkin. Then he rises from his seat, leaning forward to grab the bottle of wine off the table. He swivels toward me, tipping the neck of the bottle into my glass and refilling it, then sets the bottle back down, dropping into his chair again.

It’s a good thing he’s not looking this way, because I can’t contain the shock playing out on my face. That might’ve been the first nice thing my new husband has done for me. And the fact that it’s something as simple as refilling a glass of wine speaks volumes as to how this relationship is going.

“I occasionally take meetings in my office here,” Roman supplies as he rearranges his napkin on his lap.

“That’s the door down the hall?” I ask innocently, as if I wasn’t snooping on him before dinner. “Your office?”

“Yes.” He picks up his silverware and resumes eating, while I lift my newly refilled glass of wine and mull over his words.

If he takes meetings here, maybe I’ll recognize one of his business associates from my father’s dealings. A few of them were sweet on me. Maybe I could ask them for help, and that’d give me another potential option for getting out of here.

“But I didn’t see anyone leave,” I mumble, thinking aloud.

Roman glances over at me, arching a brow in question.

“You had a meeting in your office before dinner, but I didn’t see anyone else pass by this room,” I say, squinting my eyes in consideration. “They would’ve had to pass by here to get to the front door.”

“Niko knows his way around the manor,” Roman replies with an edge of annoyance. “Sometimes he goes out the back.”

“Oh.” I drop my gaze to my plate, shoulders slumping in disappointment. I don’t recall anyone who worked with my father called Niko.

“In any event, you don’t need to concern yourself with my business dealings,” he adds, shooting me a pointed look before returning to his dinner.

I force myself to eat a bit more of my own, gulping down the second glass of wine as the two of us dine in silence. Though there’s still a thick tension in the air and a sense of uneasiness hanging over me, the wine helps me relax a little. Enough to broach the topic of our run-in today up in the tower.

I set my wine glass back down in front of me, tracing my fingertip along the rim as I gaze over at him. “Roman, about earlier…”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he says in a clipped tone, not even glancing up from his plate.

“I just think it’d be helpful if I knew where I can and can’t go. If I don’t know the rules, I can’t know whether or not I’m breaking them.”

He sighs, pushing back in his chair and wiping his mouth with his napkin. Then he turns to look at me, those intense green eyes meeting my own. “You’re not a prisoner here, Eliza. You have free reign of the property. The east wing, the tower, and my office on this level are off-limits to you. You’re free to wander anywhere else you’d like. I’d rather you not venture into the woods surrounding the property, but if you insist on doing so, take the dogs with you for protection.”

I stare at him dumbly.

“Speaking of the dogs, I believe I already said no table scraps, and I’d prefer they stay outdoors,” he continues. “If you do insist on bringing them inside, try to be more thoughtful about the state of their paws. Clara spent half the afternoon cleaning muddy prints off the floors.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” I agree, nodding emphatically. “Anything else?”

“Eat your food.”

I slouch back in my chair, glaring down at my plate. “But I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. You’re far too thin, and I won’t have my business associates thinking I’ve been neglecting your basic needs.”

I dart a scowl in his direction. “Maybe I just have a fast metabolism.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how little you eat.”

My cheeks burn and I quickly look away, gritting my teeth.

So he has been watching me. I’d perceived his cold detachment toward me as indifference, but the fact that he’s been paying attention is somewhat alarming. It means I’ll need to be more careful with the plans I’m making so he doesn’t pick up on my intentions.

Play along.

Begrudgingly, I lift my fork, not casting my husband another glance as I force myself to finish my dinner. Though his own plate is clean, he lingers in the room until I fork the last bite into my mouth, at which point he abruptly pushes out his chair and rises to stand.

He leaves the dining room without a word.