Chapter 18 Sima
SIMA
After my shower, I find my way downstairs. Or rather, the smell of butter and something sizzling draw me forward like a cartoon character in a kitchen commercial.
I expect nothing much—as established, Petyr does not feel like a breakfast kind of guy—but then I see it.
A spread. An actual, honest-to-goodness breakfast spread.
Toasted bread. Soft scrambled eggs. A pot of dark coffee steaming beside a matching set of porcelain cups. Bacon, heaps and heaps of bacon, crispy and sweet-smelling on a decorated platter.
And in the middle of it all stands a woman who looks like she would very much like to kill me.
“Good morning, Anya,” Petyr says, walking down the stairs behind me. He’s impeccably washed and dressed, which leaves me to wonder just how many bathrooms are on the top floor alone.
The woman with the dagger glare—Anya, I presume—tips her head respectfully. “Good morning, Mr. Gubarev.” Then she tilts her head to me, with significantly less deference. “Mrs. Gubarev.”
She’s… well. Not ancient, exactly, but she looks like she knows her way around a shuffleboard court.
Medium height, gray blouse, black skirt, hair pulled into a punishing bun that looks tight enough to snap bones.
Her mouth is pinched into a line that might once have known how to smile but gave it up for Lent sometime in the 1990s.
I swear she gives me a full body scan in under one second.
Verdict: Unimpressed.
“Vy na ney zhenilis’?” she asks him in Russian, casually busying herself with pouring two cups of coffee.
I suppose I should keep it to myself that I understand the language just fine.
To Anya’s question (“You married her?”), Petyr answers with a quietly scathing look and a calm, “Da. Est’ problemy?”
Yes. Got a problem with that?
I keep my smile locked tight.
Anya doesn’t reply. Smart. Petyr doesn’t strike me as the type to accept constructive criticism from the hired help.
“Hi,” I say politely, pretending not to have understood a word. “I’m Sammi.”
She hands me my coffee with a grunt and disappears into the kitchen.
Well, fuck you, too, lady.
Petyr pulls out a chair for me. A surprisingly classy gesture, considering he just finished telling me I shouldn’t expect anything from him but sperm and a paycheck. “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“So, Anya.” We trade looks over our mugs. “Am I correct in guessing I’m not her favorite person on the planet?”
“Don’t take it personally.” Petyr shrugs and serves himself a slice of plain toast. “No one’s her favorite person on the planet.”
“She must be a spectacular cook.”
“She is,” he confirms. “And she was my father’s housekeeper.”
A legacy housekeeper. Certainly explains the job security despite the prickly attitude. “Let me guess: She doesn’t think he would approve?”
“No.”
Petyr doesn’t add anything else to that. He doesn’t garnish it with a joke, or a half-smirk, or anything to let me understand he disagrees with her assessment.
Which can only mean one thing.
He doesn’t.
We eat mostly in silence. The scrape of cutlery fills in the gaps. I’m painfully aware of every movement, every dirty glance Anya throws my way, every time Petyr refills my mug without asking.
It would almost be nice—weirdly domestic, even—if not for that one word. No.
I shake myself. Get a grip. You’re his fake wife. What do you even care if his dead dad would have approved or not?
After our silent meal, Petyr drives me back to the city. Not with the limo, this time, but a midnight black Lamborghini that’s hardly any less conspicuous. The whole ride is quiet, filled with low hums of the engine and the occasional honk from New York morning traffic.
Last night, I would have killed for an opportunity to escape like this. Today, I’m a new woman. I made a deal. Didn’t quite sign on the dotted line yet, but when the time comes, I can’t think of one single reason not to.
Except that it could get you killed.
So could a koi pond, I tell myself as I watch my apartment building appear outside the tinted window.
We roll to a stop. Petyr walks out of the car first. He gives our surroundings a quick once-over, then opens my car door.
Again, oddly gentlemanly.
I step out. It’s surreal, showing up here in a freaking Lambo. It just doesn’t fit with the aesthetic of this old, rundown place made of crumbling brick and windows that never quite close all the way.
It’s not much. But it’s been mine since I left home. And the idea of Petyr seeing it, judging it, makes my stomach twist.
He doesn’t say anything, but I see his eyes scan the building, the alley, the guy passed out in front of the bodega next door. The silence is loud. I want to shrink back into the seat. Better yet, wake up in my ratty old bed and realize this was all a weird-ass fever dream.
Petyr lifts an eyebrow. “You live here.”
“Yep.”
“Alone.”
“I mean, if you don’t count Dorito.” When he gives me a quizzical look, I elaborate. “Mrs. Lessing’s cat. Not a big fan of personal space, that one.”
Petyr’s frown deepens.
“Look, it’s rent-controlled, okay?” I explain. “That’s basically a unicorn in this city. And Dorito’s actually pretty nice once you learn not to roll in your sleep.”
He doesn’t argue, but his mouth does that tight-lipped thing that says he’s mentally listing all the ways he thinks this place is a death trap. I don’t know why I care, but I do.
We climb the narrow stairwell. The peeling paint on the handrail flakes under my fingertips. Everything smells faintly of mildew and old Chinese takeout.
Petyr walks just behind me, silent but alert, like in those horror video games with a million jump scares. Like he’s expecting shit to go sideways any second now.
Turns out, his instincts weren’t wrong.
I touch the handle of my apartment door. And… it’s unlocked.
Why is it unlocked? I didn’t leave it unlocked. I may not be rich, but I’m not stupid. “Petyr, do you—”
“Wait.” His whisper slices through the silence. He puts his arm in front of me and steps forward with his gun drawn.
It’s all I can do to keep staring at the door. Ajar, a little off-centered, the frame splintered where it shouldn’t be. My pulse starts jumping.
“Let’s go,” I whisper, trying to tug Petyr back. The sinking feeling in my gut is telling me he shouldn’t be going in there, either. “You were right; we should have sent someone. So let’s just go back and—”
Too late.
Petyr pushes open the door. It creaks, like in every horror movie I’ve ever regretted watching.
Then I see it.
My apartment is trashed.
I sink to my knees on the floor before I even realize what I’m doing.
My precious, dog-eared thrift-store rescue books are scattered in shreds across the floor.
My small Ikea table is flipped, one chair missing a leg.
The ancient couch I got for free off the curb is gutted, its stuffing spilling out like cotton entrails.
My clothes, what little I have, have been pulled from drawers and tossed into piles or cut into ribbons.
It’s like someone went looking for a money stash and got pissed when they couldn’t find it.
Worse, like they wanted me to know just how pissed.
Petyr pulls me upright, pushes me behind his back again. His gun is straight and steady. I don’t doubt for a second that, if he were to shoot, he’d hit his mark dead center.
I watch him move through the tiny space of my apartment with cold efficiency. Checking the kitchen, the bathroom, even the closet, before finally lowering his weapon.
“No one’s here,” he declares.
I let out a breath. I’m still rooted to the threshold, numb. This is my life—or it used to be. My eyes fall on a broken picture frame, the one photo I still have with…
Lara.
“Leave it,” Petyr says. “I’ll replace everything.”
He means it, I can tell. But that’s not the point. It’s not about the money. Or at least, not just that.
This was my home. My life. My safe haven. The only place I was ever free. I worked hard to get it, worked even harder to keep it, because for once, there weren’t any strings attached.
With my family, anything I ever owned came with the constant reminder that it was given to me. And what could be given could also be taken away.
But no one gave me this. I earned it. Every trinket in this apartment, every knickknack, I bought with the sweat of my brow.
And seeing it all torn apart like this… it’s more than I can bear.
I slip the picture out the broken frame and pocket it carefully.
“I need to clean it up,” I croak, trying to sound steadier than I feel.
But the anxiety is a knot at the center of my throat, and I can’t speak a single word without it coming out the other side twisted and trembling.
“I can’t just leave it like this. My landlord will go crazy. ”
“I’ll deal with your landlord,” Petyr says.
I shake my head. “No, you don’t get it. I’m locked into my lease until the end of the year. I have to take care of this place, or else—”
Or else it’ll prove I never deserved it at all.
Suddenly, Petyr’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder. Strong, warm. Safe.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says. It sounds final. “I’ll get you out of the lease, call a crew to clean up, and buy back anything that cannot be salvaged. But for now, I need you to follow me out of here.” When I don’t answer, his tone hardens. “Hey. Listen to me.”
I get it. What he’s trying to say. Someone hit my place, and by the look of it, it sure as fuck wasn’t random.
But it still breaks my heart to say goodbye.
“Okay,” I whisper finally.
As Petyr herds me outside, I throw one last glance behind my back. At the ruins of my books, my clothes, my carefully built little world. It guts me to realize how little I have left to protect.
If this hit wasn’t random, then it was planned. If it was planned, it must be related to my other life. Not to Sammi, but Sima.
Which means someone must have recognized me. At the wedding, most likely.
And that leaves me with two heavy questions.
One: who.
And two…
How long until Petyr figures it out, too?