Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Harper
If there was one thing Orlov Manor had in endless supply, besides top-shelf caviar and pricey champagne, it was loneliness.
Four whole days had passed since that ridiculous, hope-filled morning.
Four days. Ninety-six hours. Five thousand seven hundred sixty minutes.
In that time, my so-called husband, mafia boss, and the guy I'd unilaterally decided was my crush—Kirill Orlov—had vanished off the face of the earth, like he'd been abducted by aliens.
I started overthinking everything.
Was the stuff in that envelope too gross, too sappy, so he figured cold-shouldering me was the way to make me bail? Or maybe that tenderness in bed was just booze talking, and now sober, he regretted it, felt like touching a vase like me was a total disgrace?
The self-doubt hit its peak on the fourth morning.
I sat on the living room couch, staring blankly at that black card. It had worked miracles at the hospital these past days—Aiden's room upgraded to a suite with floor-to-ceiling windows, the head nurse grinning at me like I was her long-lost mom.
But I felt like a thief with stolen cash.
"Morning, ma'am."
A booming voice snapped me out of my pity party. I looked up and saw Boris striding in, carrying a couple of black file bags. He looked like he'd just come off a battlefield, dusty and worn.
"Boris!" I jumped up like he was my savior, nearly knocking over the coffee on the side table. "What are you doing here?"
Boris blinked, probably thrown by my enthusiasm. "Uh, back to grab some files for the boss, and a change of clothes."
"Change of clothes?" I latched onto that. "Kirill's still at the office?"
"Yeah." Boris scratched his bald head, looking beat. "Boss has been killing himself these days. That merger hit a snag—those old foxes on the other side are trying to screw us. He's been crashing in the office for four days straight. Even catching a nap on that leather couch feels like a luxury."
My heart unclenched, that crushing weight shattering into dust.
It wasn't me.
Not the damn envelope, not hating me.
Kirill was just swamped.
"He's been away four days because of work?" I asked cautiously, fighting a grin.
"You bet." Boris sighed. "That kind of negotiation grind would drive me nuts. Don't sweat it, ma'am—the boss turns into a maniac when he's working, doesn't give a damn about family or anything."
"I'm not sweating it!" I denied quickly, but my face heated up. "Thanks for telling me, Boris."
"No problem." Boris grabbed the bags and headed out.
After seeing him off, the sky outside looked bluer.
Harper, he's out there busting his ass for business, and you're moping over some girly crush crap.
You should do something. Act like a wife.
The idea hit just as lunch rolled around.
Grandma Olga seemed in good spirits today, decked out in a deep purple velvet gown, silver hair combed perfectly, that signature pearl necklace around her neck. I'd always dreamed of being a confident powerhouse like her, but back then, I never imagined we'd end up family.
"Sit, Harper." Olga tapped her cup with a silver spoon. "Your husband's been gone for days. You should do something."
"He's tied up with company stuff." I jumped to explain. "Boris said it's a big merger."
"Huh, merger." Olga snorted, slamming down her knife and fork. "Work, always work. His deadbeat dad wrecked his stomach that way—looks like he's following suit."
"Stomach?" I froze. "Kirill's got stomach issues?"
"Bad ones." Olga rolled her eyes. "Severe ulcers, chronic gastritis. Doctor said to eat on time, cut the coffee and hard liquor. But him? When he's buried in work, forgets to eat, hell, even drink water. He'll keel over in that office one day from the pain."
"Doesn't anyone remind him?" I asked.
"Who'd dare?" Olga arched a brow. "Boris, that lug, just hands him cigars. Secretaries? Those little vixens drool over his face, couldn't care less about his gut."
The old lady paused, those sharp blue eyes locking onto me.
"Harper."
"Yeah." I straightened up instinctively.
"You're his wife," Olga stated it like a fact. "You handle it."
Just like that, my afternoon got planned out. You don't say no to Olga Orlov, especially when those gray-blue eyes crack your defenses like walnuts.
Truth be told, I had no right to refuse. My bag still held that heavy black card—Kirill's "advance payment."
Take the money, do the job. Or in this case, deliver the meal.
I packed the beef stew and borscht I'd learned from the cook into a thermos. And the walnut cookies I'd baked, split into two bags. One in a cute bear-patterned pouch for Aiden at the hospital later; the other...
I hesitated, then shoved them into a brown paper bag and tucked it in the side pocket.
What if Kirill had a sweet tooth?
Kirill's company towered in Midtown Manhattan, a glass skyscraper scraping the clouds. Standing at the massive revolving doors, craning my neck up, that familiar smallness hit me again.
This was the elite world. Everyone in razor-sharp suits, expensive shoes, talking fast as machine guns, faces screaming, "I make millions a minute."
I gripped my out-of-place lunch bag, took a deep breath, and stepped into the lobby.
The AC blasted cold, air thick with fancy perfume.
I headed straight for the front desk.
Two women sat there, makeup flawless like TV stars. The one on the left had big, wavy blonde hair, nails like artwork. She was on the phone, eyes flicking over me dismissively, then away like I was nothing.
I waited patiently for her to hang up.
"Hi." I flashed a polite smile. "I'm here to see Mr. Kirill Orlov."
The blonde finally looked at me properly. Her gaze lingered on my face for two seconds, then dropped to my homey lunch bag.
Her lips curled in a sneer.
"Appointment?" Her voice was sweet, but laced with blades.
"No," I admitted. "But I just need to get this to him, or if you could buzz him—"
"Sorry, miss." She cut me off, filing her nails. "This is Orlov Group headquarters, not a delivery spot. No appointment, no entry. Especially for... DoorDash."
She stressed "DoorDash" hard.
My face burned, but I wasn't quitting. "I'm not delivering takeout. I'm—I'm Kirill's wife."
The words hung in the air, everything going quiet for a beat.
The other receptionist looked up, shocked, and the blonde burst out laughing.
"Wife?" She eyed me up and down, mockery raw. "If we kept a list of women claiming to be Mr. Orlov's wife, girlfriend, or long-lost sister every day, it'd wrap the building three times."
"I really am." My palms sweated, humiliation rising, but I pushed on. "Call the executive office to verify. Or Boris."
"Boris? Fine." She rolled her eyes, reluctantly picking up the receiver. "I'll ask. But if you get chewed out, don't say I didn't warn you."
She dialed, switching to a syrupy tone. "Hello? Executive office? There's a lady down here, yeah, with a lunchbox, says she's Mr. Orlov's wife. Yeah, I know it's hilarious, but I just... okay, got it."
She hung up, her look shifting slightly, but still no respect.
"They said someone's coming down. Wait over there." She pointed to the lobby lounge.
"Thanks."
I exhaled, carried the bag over, and sat.
Waiting dragged on forever.
It was rush hour, elevators spitting out employees. They passed the lounge in groups, eyes inevitably landing on me.
An ordinary woman, clutching a lunchbox, fidgeting on the leather couch.
I caught their whispers.
"Who's that?"
"Dunno, says she's delivering food."
"To whom? We got that service here?"
"Heard it's for the boss... God, what outdated rom-com is this?"
Their stares pricked like needles. I looked down at the bag—cozy at the manor, but here, it screamed childish and tacky.
I didn't belong.
Once the thought hit, it stuck. Why'd I come? Why think Kirill wanted to see the woman forced on him?
Just as I nearly bolted, the private elevator dinged open.
I shot up, heart racing.
But it wasn't the handsome suit stepping out.
It was Boris.
And Boris looked awkward. The usually grinning giant frowned, eyes dodging, avoiding mine.
My heart sank.
Boris hurried over, stopping two steps away. Lingering employees slowed, and the desk blonde craned her neck for the show.
"Ma—Miss Harper." Boris switched titles, voice low. "Boss is in a meeting."
"I know." I forced a smile, lifting the bag. "Just dropping off food. Olga said his stomach's bad, so I made borscht. I can wait upstairs or leave it in his office—"
"No."
Boris cut me off.
"No?" I froze.
He glanced at the gawkers, face twisting. He leaned in, almost pleading. "Critical meeting right now. Can't have... outsiders around."
Outsiders.
He was avoiding me... and saw me as an outsider.
Blood rushed to my head, then drained, leaving ice.
"Okay, got it." I choked back hurt, refusing to cry in front of them.
How could I forget? My husband didn't like me, didn't want to marry me.
"So," Boris sighed, stiffly following orders, "need a ride back?"
Eager to hustle me out, like saying—don't embarrass us here.
"No, I'm good. I'll go." I swallowed a sob, whispering.
Snickers echoed. I didn't need to look—their faces were smug.
I felt like a stripped clown under spotlights, for everyone's amusement.
Tears welled, but I bit my tongue, the sting keeping me sharp.
I shoved the bag into Boris's arms. Too rough—the thermos thumped his chest, soup sloshing dully. I'd slaved over that stew. Cooking wasn't my thing—you can't expect gourmet from someone living on frozen meals—but love for Kirill pushed me through.
"Here. This is for you." I stared him down. "If you don't want to eat it, toss it in the trash."
Then I remembered the cookies in my bag. Some for Aiden, but part for him.
I yanked out the bag and jammed it at Boris.
"And this."
Done, I felt drained.
"Harper—" Boris fumbled with the stuff, lost.
I didn't look at him or anyone. I turned, back straight, marched to the doors.
Behind, the blonde's sharp voice. "Told you it was a takeout delivery."
A heavy smash—like something slammed on marble—then Boris's growl, fury low. "Shut your mouth."
I sped up, fleeing that suffocating glass tower.
Into the evening chill, Manhattan's roar hit. Traffic drowned everything.
Around the corner, alone, I slumped against cold brick, tears finally breaking.
Not just for the uneaten soup, but my pathetic one-sided feelings.
"Kirill, you're an asshole." I choked into the air. "A total fucking asshole."