Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Kirill
This was day four.
To swallow that damn Italian shipping company's port shares, I'd holed up in this office reeking of coffee and printer ozone for ninety-six straight hours. My opponents were a pack of vulture-sharp old bastards, trying to snatch meat from the Orlov family's jaws.
Dream on.
"Boss."
Boris's voice came from behind, cautious like he wanted to shrink his bulk invisible. The big guy had caught my foul moods lately. No wonder he felt like hiding in the walls.
I turned, rubbing my temples. "Spit it. If it's bad news, jump out that window yourself."
Boris winced. "Not exactly bad, but... off-protocol. Front desk called—ma'am's downstairs."
Harper?
"What's she doing here?" I frowned, first hit not joy, but annoyed offense.
This was a warzone. Commercial, sure, but packed with bloodthirsty lawyers, greedy shareholders, rivals ready to stab. What was she pulling, showing up like some scorned trophy wife marking territory? Or because I hadn't been home, she felt neglected and staged this missing-husband drama?
No sense of boundaries.
I hated people without boundaries. Made her feel less like a quiet shield and more like trouble.
"She... said she's delivering dinner." Boris watched my face, voice fading.
Dinner? I sneered. Olga's idea, no doubt.
"Send her back." I spun to the files. "Tell her I'm busy. This isn't a playhouse. If she wants to act the perfect wife, do it at the manor."
Boris paused. "But boss, she's been waiting forever—"
"You deaf or itching to farm potatoes in Siberia?" I cut him cold.
Boris shut up. He knew my limit.
"Got it." He dipped his head and hurried out.
The door clicked shut, but my irritation grew like weeds. I yanked off my tie and tossed it on the couch.
Delivering dinner? Laughable—like Midtown couldn't order takeout?
If it was Genevie... I froze, her blonde image flashing unbidden. Genevie would've known I was slammed, waited quietly at home, no pointless stunts. She knew when to show, when to vanish.
I pressed my temples, irritated.
Damn it.
Dwelling on the past helped nothing. Genevie was history. Harper was my wife—however it started, she was mine now.
I dropped back at the desk, tried focusing on clauses. But the words danced, refusing to stick.
Ten minutes later, the door pushed open.
Boris returned, not empty-handed—a lunch bag in tow.
"I said send her away." I narrowed my eyes, tone lethal. "Not bring up trash."
"She left, boss." Boris set the bag on the coffee table, gentle as handling explosives. "Said it's for me, but I doubt it."
I arched a brow.
He paused, then pulled a clear-wrapped cookie bag from his pocket, scratching his head awkwardly.
"And this came with it." Boris eyed the cookies, then me. "But I know you hate sweets, so can I handle 'em?"
"Whatever."
I waved dismissively. Boris looked intimidating, but the guy loved sweets. He clutched the cookies and bolted, leaving me alone with the bag.
A faint aroma drifted up, my stomach twisting in protest.
I'd survived on black coffee and whiskey for four days. My gut screamed rebellion.
I stared at the bag, then—against better judgment—set down my pen, walked over. Just a peek. If it's crap, the janitor takes it.
I unzipped and twisted open the thermos.
A rich wave of sour cream and herb steam hit me.
Damn.
I grabbed the spoon, told myself one taste. Just one.
Next thing, my taste buds surrendered. I polished off half the soup, most of the beef. Warmth spread down my throat, soothing the spasms. Even the drill in my head quit.
I exhaled long and sank into the couch.
First comfort in four days.
Then, muffled voices from outside.
The executive office soundproofed well, but not perfectly. Especially with folks chatting in the lounge.
"God, these cookies are amazing!" That was Boris. "Oats and dark chocolate in there?"
Another assistant chimed in. "Was that delivery woman really Kirill's wife? She seemed so sweet, baking cookies herself."
"Shh! Keep it down!"
I sat there, eavesdropping on the whispers.
A weird feeling bubbled in my chest.
Not anger. Normally, gossip about my life during work hours? I'd fire them. But hearing praise for Harper, the woman I'd shut out, sparked a flicker of...
Pride?
But she was my wife. Those were my cookies. What right did these pricks have to enjoy them?
Fine.
Seemed everyone had time on their hands. If they could host a snack party, they could recheck that North Sea route insurance claim. Every punctuation mark from the last decade—till they puked up every bite.
My finger hovered over the intercom, ready to unleash hell on the outer office.
But a knock came.
"Come in."
The door opened. Catherine, my chief secretary, around thirty, sharp as hell usually. But today, she walked in guilty. I spotted it—a tiny brown crumb on her lip, right at the lipstick edge.
Damn.
I stared at that crumb, temples throbbing.
"Boss?" Catherine sensed trouble, face paling. "I just remembered something unfinished—I'll handle it." She dropped the file bag and fled, door half-shut.
Office quiet again.
I grabbed the bag, ripped the seal, and dumped the contents on the walnut desk. Papers and photos scattered.
All on Harper.
I picked up the first sheet, skimmed casually.
But page by page, my indifference froze. Brows furrowed, I sat up straight.
The file was clean.
Too clean—heartbreakingly so.
Her Dad was a drunk, drowned in debt, and bailed early. Mom remarried, ditched her and the sick brother like trash to please the new guy.
From eighteen, she'd raised her brother with congenital heart disease alone.
A dense table listed her jobs and finances.
Nursing home aide, diner dishwasher, convenience store night cashier... every gig imaginable.
Expenses: ninety percent to hospitals and pharmacies. Rest on cheap rent and food.
No luxuries. No salons, vacations, barely clothes.
For a burdensome brother, she'd sold herself to me.
Guilt. Foreign to me, but it hit now.
Maybe I should check on her tonight. Whatever the reason, newlyweds being apart too long looked bad for her.
The drive home left me restless.
For some reason, imagining her cold shoulder stirred odd anxiety.
The car pulled into the manor gates. Night blanketed the main house. Only a few windows glowed warm yellow.
I headed straight to the second floor.
Pushed open the master bedroom door. The room was quiet. The bedside lamp was on, but the bed was empty.
Shower sounds trickled from the bathroom.
She was bathing.
I relaxed, shrugged off my coat, and tossed the tie on the couch. The empty lunch bag went on the nightstand, right by that pink card.
I'd planned to hit the study for emails, wait till she finished, then... say what?
Hadn't figured out words yet.
Then, the water stopped.
The door opened.
Harper stepped out. Clearly hadn't expected me.
Just a big white towel wrapped around her, hair damp over her shoulders, dripping. Water trailed her pale neck, over her collarbone, vanishing into the towel's deep shadow.
Dressing room light backlit her, outlining lush curves.
She froze seeing me.
"Kirill?" Harper's eyes widened like a startled deer's. "You're back?"
Her eyes were red—recent tears. Guilt surged again, but hot on its heels came a raw, undeniable urge.
I said nothing, strode over.
"Ah!" She yelped, backed up—but hit the wall.
I caged her in, hands braced on either side, claiming her space.
Air thick with her faint body wash—milk and honey. Mixed with the borscht aftertaste, it blended oddly perfectly.
Harper looked up, eyes evasive, lips pressed tight. Lashes trembled, holding back emotion.
"What do you want?" She spoke, voice taut. "If you think I shouldn't have gone to the office, I won't again."
She turned away, eyes reddening.
I paused. Was she angry? Hurt?
"The soup was good." I eyed her lips, pale as cherry blossoms. "Beef tender too. Best meal I've had in years."
Harper's eyes lit up, so easy to please it ached. "Really? You... ate it?"
"Ate it. Drank every drop." I skipped the cookies—my secret. "But I'm still hungry."
"Huh?" She blinked. "Want me to have Galina make more? Or something else?"
I smirked, leaned in close to her ear.
"I want something else."
My hand slid down her arm to the towel's edge. Skin under my palm was silky and warm, like fine satin.
Harper shuddered, face flushing red—she got it.
"Kirill..." She pushed my chest weakly, more tease than refusal. "Did you read the card?"
Card? Fuzzy memory—that pink thing.
Where'd I toss it? Study drawer? Trash?
Damn, I hadn't opened it, but now, at the brink, I'd better not admit.
"Yeah." I lied smoothly, thumb stroking her inner wrist. "Well-written. Very sincere."
Harper bit her lip, eyes flickering with conflict and hope.
"So, you accept?" She asked softly, voice mosquito-quiet.
I stilled. "Accept what?"
"This relationship... with me." She looked up, eyes misty.
She was asking if I'd take pure physical?
Why not?
My gaze raked her trembling lips, body hitting every mark of my type.
She was clean, docile, and she even made those simple home-cooked meals that actually settled my stomach.
In bed, she was tight enough to drive me insane, her reactions genuine, almost cute. Most importantly, she wasn't like those greedy socialites—she was safe, like the perfect doll who never demanded any emotional investment from me.
All I had to do was give her money and enjoy her body.
What possible reason was there not to accept?
"Of course." I dipped, lips brushing her earlobe. "I accept. Very satisfied."
She exhaled, a visible wave of relief washing over her, her whole body loosening like a weight had lifted. Those wide eyes sparkled now, not with tears, but something brighter—joy, maybe even eagerness.
Damn, she was easy to read, and right then, it hit me: when Harper was happy, she'd do just about anything.