Chapter Twenty - Chloe
The estate hums with life, the kind of laughter and chatter that bounces off the grand hallways and spills into every corner. The scent of fresh flowers mixes with the rich aroma of catered food, while the soft notes of a piano drift through the air.
My family and friends are everywhere—clinking glasses, exchanging stories, and smiling at me like this is the happiest day of my life. Even a few of Erik’s relatives are here, though their presence feels more obligatory than heartfelt.
It’s my birthday.
I should be happy. The house looks stunning, the atmosphere is lively, and it’s clear how much effort went into planning this event. Yet, as I linger near the edge of the room with a polite smile plastered on my face, I feel distant from it all. Detached.
My hand instinctively rests on my stomach, fingers splayed over the gentle swell beneath my dress. The small curve is a constant reminder of how much my life has changed. Every flutter, every slight shift reminds me that I’m not the person I used to be.
Yet, as miraculous as it feels, it also leaves a sharp pang in my chest.
I want Erik to be here.
He should be here—seeing how much I’ve changed, feeling the life we created move inside me. But he’s not.
He’s somewhere far away, buried in the business that dragged him to Russia. It’s been five months now, with little more than a handful of brief updates—no calls, no visits. Just a steady, suffocating silence broken by the occasional couriered note or message relayed through his lawyer.
“Chloe, darling, you’re glowing,” my mother says, cutting into my thoughts. Her hand rests lightly on my arm as her gaze flickers toward my stomach.
I force a smile, nodding. “Thank you, Mom.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks, her tone overly cheerful.
“Yes,” I lie, glancing across the room at the throng of guests.
Satisfied with my answer, she’s quickly drawn away by one of her friends. As soon as she’s gone, I exhale quietly, slipping further toward the edge of the crowd.
The party feels like a show I’m watching from behind a glass wall, everything shiny and perfect but unreachable. Even surrounded by people, I feel alone.
The doorbell rings suddenly, cutting through the noise, and my breath hitches.
Erik.
I don’t wait for the staff to answer. My pulse races as I weave through the clusters of guests, making my way to the front door as quickly as I can without drawing attention.
When I reach the entryway, my heart pounds with anticipation, hope curling tightly in my chest as I pull the door open.
Instead of Erik, a delivery man in a crisp uniform stands on the other side, holding a neatly wrapped gift.
“Mrs. Sharov?” he asks, his tone polite.
The hope that had burned so brightly moments ago snuffs out, leaving me hollow. “Yes,” I manage, my voice quieter than I intend.
“This is for you,” he says, offering the package.
I take it, murmuring a distracted “Thank you,” before closing the door.
Leaning back against the wall, I stare down at the gift, its weight far heavier than it should be. Another thoughtful gesture, most likely from my mother—she never misses an opportunity to remind me of her presence.
It isn’t what I wanted.
It isn’t what I’d been silently praying for.
I draw a slow breath, willing the sting of disappointment away as I turn back toward the party.
“Everything alright?” Amelia’s voice stops me mid-step.
I glance at her over my shoulder, my older sister standing with a glass of champagne in hand. Her perfectly styled hair and tailored dress scream effortless elegance, though her smile is tinged with a smugness I know too well.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
She raises a brow, her eyes flicking to the gift in my hands before settling back on my face. “You were expecting someone else,” she observes.
“It’s nothing,” I reply, brushing past her.
Her voice follows me, softer but pointed. “You know he won’t come, right? He’s too busy running his empire to bother with birthday parties.”
The comment lands like a knife between my ribs, but I don’t stop.
“You don’t know anything about him,” I say quietly, my grip tightening on the gift as I continue walking.
“Maybe not,” she calls after me, “but I know you. And I know what it looks like when you’re waiting for someone who isn’t going to show.”
Her words sting, lingering like a wound I can’t ignore.
I return to the main hall, where the laughter and conversation remain as lively as ever. The party moves on as if nothing has changed, as if my absence didn’t even matter. I set the gift on a side table, ignoring the curious glances cast my way by a few nearby guests.
The weight in my chest grows heavier as I press a hand to my belly again. The warmth of the touch is grounding, a reminder of what’s real, but it does little to soothe the ache inside me.
Five months.
I’ve made it through five months without him.
I can make it through another.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
The party continues to swirl around me, a cacophony of laughter, music, and clinking glasses. I do my best to engage, to play the part of the perfect hostess, but my heart isn’t in it. My smile feels tight, my responses automatic as I weave through the clusters of guests.
Aunt Margaret stops me near the dessert table, her heavily bejeweled hands clutching a flute of champagne. “Chloe, darling, you’re simply glowing,” she gushes, her voice loud enough to draw a few nearby glances. “Pregnancy suits you.”
“Thank you,” I say politely, though my hand rests instinctively on my stomach, a protective gesture I don’t fully understand.
Margaret leans in conspiratorially, her heavily perfumed presence overwhelming. “Erik? Will he be back soon?”
I force my smile to remain in place. “He’s very busy with work right now,” I reply, keeping my tone light.
She clucks her tongue, her painted lips curving into a sly smile. “Ah, such a shame. A husband should always make time for his wife, especially in your condition.”
Her words feel like tiny barbs, but I nod, murmuring something noncommittal before excusing myself.
Further into the room, my father stands with a small group of Erik’s relatives, his booming laugh cutting through the air. When I approach, his expression shifts, a warm smile replacing the more boisterous energy he’d been projecting.
“Chloe,” he says, opening his arms as though inviting me into the conversation. “Here’s the birthday girl!”
The men around him nod politely, their smiles courteous but guarded. I wonder if they see me as anything more than Erik’s wife—a necessary cog in whatever machinery he’s built with them.
“How are you holding up, sweetheart?” my father asks, his gaze flickering briefly to my stomach before meeting my eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, my tone too practiced to sound genuine.
“Good, good,” he says with a firm nod. “It’s important to stay strong, especially with Erik away. You know how demanding his work can be.”
I nod again, the familiar refrain ringing hollow. “Of course.”
The conversation drifts into safer topics, and I linger for a few minutes before slipping away once more. My cheeks ache from smiling, my patience frayed from the endless stream of well-meaning but shallow remarks.
I find myself standing by the window in the sitting room, staring out at the sprawling gardens bathed in moonlight. The soft glow highlights every curve of the manicured hedges, every ripple of the distant fountain. It’s beautiful, serene even, but it does nothing to calm the thoughts swirling in my mind.
I press a hand against the cool glass, my other instinctively resting on my stomach. My reflection stares back at me, a pale ghost of a woman I barely recognize.
I think of Erik.
It’s impossible not to. He’s always there, lingering at the edges of my thoughts, no matter how much I try to push him away.
I’ve spent months trying to convince myself that I don’t need him, that I can navigate this strange new life without him. But as the days stretch into weeks, and the weeks into months, I feel the cracks in that resolve growing wider.
He frustrates me. Infuriates me.
But he also consumes me.
There’s a pull between us I can’t deny, no matter how much I try. I think of the way he looks at me—those sharp blue eyes that see too much, that strip away my defenses with infuriating ease. The way his touch lingers long after he’s gone, leaving me breathless and raw.
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly as I let the truth settle over me.
I miss him.
The realization is both startling and inevitable, a quiet admission that feels like a betrayal of everything I’ve fought so hard to protect.
I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to want him.
I do.
The thought terrifies me, the weight of it pressing down like a stone in my chest. How could I let this happen? How could I let myself feel anything for a man who forced me into this life, who controls so much of who I am now?
Yet….
I can’t stop thinking about him.
The way his voice wraps around me like a caress, the way his presence fills every space he enters with a gravity I can’t escape. The way he makes me feel alive in ways I don’t fully understand.
My hand tightens against the glass, my breathing uneven as I try to steady myself.
I think of what it will be like when he comes back— if he comes back. Will I still feel this way? Or will time erode the hold he has on me, leaving behind only the bitterness I’ve clung to for so long?
The answers don’t come, only more questions, more uncertainty.
For now, all I can do is wait.
The noise of the party feels like a distant hum as I move away from the ballroom, muffled and irrelevant as I linger by the window. My fingers brush the glass absentmindedly, my thoughts spiraling into places I’d rather not let them go. Erik’s absence feels heavier tonight, despite my best efforts to distract myself.
I glance over my shoulder at the clusters of remaining guests, their laughter and idle chatter grating against the quiet ache inside me. I can’t do this anymore.
“Chloe?” My mother’s voice rises above the crowd as she weaves toward me, her drink balanced precariously in her hand. “Are you alright, darling? You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.”
“I’m fine,” I reply quickly, mustering a polite smile.
She studies me for a moment, her brow furrowing in that subtle, maternal way that says she doesn’t entirely believe me. “Why don’t you come back and join us? Your Aunt Margaret was just asking about you.”
“Maybe later,” I say, my tone firmer this time. “I just need a moment.”
Before she can protest, I slip away, weaving through the scattered guests toward the stairs. No one stops me as I ascend to the quiet sanctuary of the second floor.
Once in my room, I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing as the door clicks shut behind me. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and the quiet is a welcome relief.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my hand instinctively resting on my stomach. The movement soothes me, grounding me in a way little else can these days.
Lately, I’ve been throwing myself into plans for the future—anything to keep my mind occupied.
My fingers trail over the stack of papers on the nightstand: printouts of market analyses, design sketches, and cataloged lists of rare, antique furniture. It started as a passing thought during one of the many restless nights after Erik left, but the idea has since taken root.
A boutique.
Not just any boutique, but one that specializes in rare, antique furniture from the eighteenth century. I’ve always loved history—there’s something magical about objects that have lived through centuries, each one carrying its own story. It’s a passion that feels like mine alone, something untouched by the chaos of my current life.
Over the past few months, I’ve been researching extensively, combing through auctions and estate sales for unique pieces.
I’ve even found a few items that I know would sell well: an ornate French Rococo armchair with intricate carvings, a Georgian mahogany chest that radiates understated elegance, and a Venetian mirror that could be the centerpiece of any collection.
I run my fingers over the edge of one of the sketches, the smooth paper cool beneath my touch.
This dream—this idea—feels like my escape, my way of carving out something for myself in a life that’s often felt out of my control.
The thought of it fills me with a flicker of hope, though it’s bittersweet. Erik doesn’t know about my plans. He probably wouldn’t understand, or worse, he’d try to involve himself, turning it into another thing I’d have to fight him over.
I push the thought away, determined not to let it taint this moment.
Instead, I let myself imagine the future: the boutique’s grand opening, the polished floors gleaming beneath antique chandeliers, the walls lined with carefully curated pieces that speak to the past. It’s a vision that feels tangible, something I can hold on to in the face of so much uncertainty.
As I lose myself in the possibilities, a soft knock at the door pulls me back to the present.
“Chloe?” It’s Amelia’s voice, muffled but unmistakable.
I hesitate, then rise to my feet, crossing the room to crack the door open.
She leans casually against the frame, her wineglass nearly empty. “You disappeared,” she says, her tone neutral but with an edge of curiosity.
“I needed a break,” I reply, stepping back to let her in.
Amelia enters, her sharp eyes immediately taking in the stack of papers on the nightstand. “What’s all this?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, moving to shuffle the papers into a neat pile.
Her lips curve into a faint smirk. “Nothing doesn’t usually come with catalog numbers and market projections.”
“It’s just an idea,” I admit, reluctantly sitting back on the bed.
Amelia picks up one of the sketches, her expression shifting to mild surprise. “A boutique?” she says, glancing at me.
I nod, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “For antiques. Furniture, mostly. I’ve been researching pieces that could sell well.”
She studies the sketch for a moment before setting it back down. “You always did have an eye for things like this,” she says, her tone uncharacteristically sincere.
“Thanks,” I say softly, surprised by the compliment.
She crosses her arms, leaning against the dresser. “So, what’s stopping you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve clearly put a lot of thought into this,” she says, gesturing to the papers. “Why not go for it?”
I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “It’s not that simple, Amelia. I’m pregnant, for one. Then there’s Erik.”
Her smirk returns, though there’s something softer in her eyes now. “Erik might control a lot of things, Chloe, but I doubt he can stop you from chasing a dream. If this is what you want, don’t let him—or anyone—get in your way.”
Her words linger long after she leaves, the weight of them settling in my chest.
For the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m on the verge of something important.
Maybe Amelia’s right.
Maybe this dream is worth fighting for.