26. Half a Million Lies Mila
I am studying Russian in secret, hiding textbooks and scribbled notes in my closet like some guilty teenager concealing love letters. It’s not for me. It’s for him. He’s the kind of man who swallows your soul and spits out the parts he doesn’t need. Ruthless. Beautiful. Untouchable.
But I can’t help myself. His world is as much a mystery as the language he grew up speaking. So here I am, sitting at the kitchen table, mumbling through clumsy Cyrillic phrases when his shadow crosses the doorway.
“Mila,” his voice carries that low, amused rumble that somehow manages to thrill and infuriate me at the same time. “What are you doing?”
I freeze, my pencil hovering above the notebook. Things are still a bit awkward between us ever since I turned his advances down. “Nothing,” I lie, which is absurd given the textbook sprawled open in front of me.
He steps closer.
“ Povtorit ’,” he says, his accent sharp.
“I didn’t ask for help,” I shoot back, my cheeks heating under his scrutiny.
“You didn’t have to,” he counters, pulling out the chair across from me. He sits down, languid yet commanding, rolling up his sleeves just enough to expose the veins and tattoos snaking along his forearms.
“Say it,” he orders, pointing to the word on the page.
I clench my teeth, hating how his command sends an unwanted thrill racing through me. “ Povtorit’ ,” I repeat, stumbling over the pronunciation.
He smirks, the kind of smirk that makes me want to hurl the textbook at his head. “Again.”
We go on like this, him correcting my every mistake, leaning in so close I can feel his breath against my skin. The scent of him, dark, masculine, and infuriatingly intoxicating, fills the small space between us.
Finally, I drop the pencil and glare at him. “Why do half your words sound like threats?”
He chuckles. “Because in Russian, even poetry can sound like a death sentence.”
I roll my eyes. “Figures. Okay, if you’re going to sit here and play teacher, at least teach me something useful.”
“Useful?” His brow arches. “Like what?”
“Swear words.”
He laughs outright this time. “Of course you’d want to know that.”
“I’m serious,” I insist. “If I’m going to learn Russian, I might as well know how to tell someone off properly.”
“You already know how to tell me off, Mila. And you don’t need Russian for that.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “Fine. Then I’ll just look them up myself.”
“You’d butcher the pronunciation.”
“Then teach me,” I challenge.
For a moment, he says nothing, just studies me with that infuriatingly calm intensity of his. Then, slowly, he leans back and gestures toward the notebook.
“Write this down,” he says, his tone all business now. “ Moya lyubov’ .”
I scribble the word onto the page, then glance up at him suspiciously. “What does it mean?”
He shrugs, a devilish glint in his eyes. “Try using it the next time you’re annoyed with me.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re not telling me, are you?”
He smirks again, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Say it, Mila.”
“ Moya lyubov ’.”
“Perfect. You’ve got the hang of it.”
“If this turns out to mean something embarrassing—”
“It doesn’t,” he interrupts smoothly, but the amusement dancing in his eyes tells me otherwise.
“Why are you even doing this?” he finally asks.
I glare at him, wondering if he’s really that dense or if he just wants to hear me say it.
“Because it’s your language,” I snap. “And maybe I’m tired of being an outsider.”
Something flickers in his eyes—something I can’t place—before it disappears. He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.
“Get dressed,” he says. “We’re going out.”
“Out where?”
“You’ll see.”
He takes me to a restaurant. It is one of those upscale places where the lighting is dim, the portions are tiny, and the prices are obscene. I remember the last time we were here. He couldn’t wait to leave, checking his watch between bites. I remember sitting across from him, feeling invisible.
Tonight, he’s different. Attentive. Watchful.
He orders for both of us without asking, his confidence as infuriating as it is magnetic. When the food arrives, he cuts a piece of his steak and holds it out to me on his fork.
“Try it,” he demands.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Is it poisoned?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Against my better judgment, I lean forward and take the bite. The steak melts on my tongue, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a compliment. Instead, I arch a brow. “Not bad. You must’ve had the chef sign a waiver.”
“You’ve always had such faith in me, Mila.”
“Is this part of the revenge plan, Rafael? Dragging me to a fancy restaurant and pretending to care?”
His jaw tightens, but his smirk doesn’t waver. “Revenge takes patience. You should know that by now.”
I tilt my head, letting my voice drop. “So, where is it? The torture? The poison? Or are you losing your touch?”
His eyes darken, the amusement draining from his face. “Marrying me was torture enough for you, wasn’t it?”
The words hit their mark, but I refuse to let him see it. “Touché,” I say, raising my glass in a mock toast.
He lifts his own. “To us.”
The rest of the meal passes in charged silence. When dessert arrives, he pushes his plate toward me without a word, he hates sweets.
I take a bite. The sweetness lingers on my tongue, but it’s his gaze I feel most acutely—like a storm gathering on the horizon, waiting to strike.
He pulls out a Cartier box and opens it to reveal a diamond necklace. It catches the dim light of the restaurant, sparkling like the kind of trophy women kill for.
“For you,” He tells me.
I stare at it, heart thudding a little too loudly in my chest. I know this particular design. It’s half a million.
I pick up the box, my fingers brushing over the cold stones. “Why?” I ask.
“You’ve been watching that Dubai Bling bullshit. I don’t want my wife to feel like others have better than her,” he grunts. “Also, I don’t want anyone thinking I’m not spoiling you.”
I close the box, snapping the lid shut. “So it’s about appearances,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice and failing miserably. I wanted it to be out of something else, something I don’t have the courage to name.
“Everything is,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Of course it is.”
He doesn’t respond.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask. “Thank you for the shiny collar, Rafael? For making sure I look the part?”
I hold the box out to him. “Here. You can keep it. I don’t want it.”
He doesn’t take it. Instead, he grabs my wrist and leans in. “You’ll wear it.”
“Why? To keep up the charade?”
“No,” he says, his gaze burning into mine. “Because I gave it to you.”
“ Moya lyubov ’.” I hiss at him the curse word he taught me.
I expect him to be angry, but he throws his head back and laughs. Fucker.