Chapter 25 Sima
SIMA
When I wake up, Petyr isn’t next to me.
It takes a beat before my brain catches up. I feel the other side of the bed, but the sheets are smooth. Cold, untouched. He must not have come back at all.
I don’t know why the thought makes a knot tighten in my stomach, but it does.
I slip out of bed and pad barefoot into the living room. That’s where I finally find him.
He’s standing near the windows, fully dressed for the day. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, exposing the lean lines of his muscles. The skyline stretches out behind him, all sharp angles and silver light, making him look like the king of the world.
But it’s his face that draws me in. He hasn’t seen me yet. And his expression when he thinks no one’s looking—real, unguarded—seems…
Tired. Not just physically, but mentally. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in a week.
But then he sees me, and the spell is broken. “Sima.”
I flash him a casual, sleepy smile, pretending I just walked in. “You always get up this early?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Or did you finally find out I wasn’t lying when I said I’m a snorer?”
The corner of his lips flickers. “I’m an early bird.”
“Must have caught a lot of worms, then.” I survey the takeout bags on the table, take a sniff at what’s inside. “You ordered breakfast?”
“Eggs and bacon sandwiches,” he says. “Nothing fancy.”
As if on cue, my stomach growls. Plenty fancy by my standards, it seems to say.
“Your coffee,” Petyr says, sliding a lidded cup towards me. “Splash of cream, two sugars.”
My lips fall open. “How did you know how I take it?”
“You mentioned.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yesterday.”
But it’s not “nothing.” I did mention, yeah, but it was just the once. In passing. As a joke. Even Jemma mixes up my order on the regular, and we’ve been working side by side for years. The fact that Petyr heard my preferred coffee order once and stuck it in his brain? It’s…
Caring.
He cares what I like.
I shake that thought off and sit down to eat.
The eggs and bacon sandwiches look heavenly. Smell heavenly, too. It’s not breakfast in bed, but it’s more than anyone has ever done for me.
I take a grateful sip of my coffee. The warmth seeps through me, slowly bringing me back to life. I can never function without my cup of liquid productivity in the morning.
Petyr settles across from me. He isn’t touching his food, but his scalding coffee disappears down his throat like fresh water.
It feels oddly domestic, eating like this. Like we’ve known each other all our lives.
Then I remember dinner last night. How quiet he got afterwards.
Unease stirs in me. “So,” I say, more to break the silence than anything.
“So.”
“You didn’t come back last night.”
“I had a work emergency.”
“Yeah. You’ve said.” I hide my face behind the rim of my cup. “How did it go? Did you save the planet or whatever it is you billionaires with racecars do in your spare time?”
His brow furrows. “My Lambo isn’t a racecar.”
“Apologies. Your very long, very flat minivan.”
I can see a smile fighting to get out. But it must not fight very hard, because soon, Petyr’s face is the same exact shade of Exhaustion Gray it was moments ago, only more guarded. “No planets were saved. But I did what I needed to do.”
“That’s very informative.”
“I wasn’t aware you were looking for information.”
“I’m not,” I recover as smoothly as I can. Even though I really wasn’t looking, it’s better if he doesn’t have a reason to suspect me. To look too deeply into me. “Just wondering if you caught any Zs last night.”
My explanation seems to relax him a little. “Sleep is a luxury,” he rumbles with that low baritone of his that makes me want to nod dumbly at everything he says.
“And the life you lead here is certainly that of a pauper.”
He shrugs. “In this life, you learn to trade one luxury for another. It’s the only way to get what you really want.”
“Bartering?”
“Sacrifice.”
And on that joyful note, we turn back to our breakfast.
But the silence gnaws at me. And I do have a request for Petyr, so I might as well smash it to smithereens while I’m at it. “I like it here,” I say. “The penthouse.”
He lifts his gaze from his picked-at sandwich. “It’s not for sale.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I roll my eyes. “Just so you know, I like having both my kidneys. And I’m no gold-digger. As my escape attempt up your rusty gate should have already established.”
He seems to mull over my words. “No, you’re not,” he concedes.
“Great,” I mutter. “Glad we settled that.”
“So what did you want with my penthouse, then?”
Right. Fuck. That.
“Nothing,” I say, voice rising an octave too high.
Petyr doesn’t look convinced.
“Fine,” I blurt. “It’s nothing big. I was just thinking we could stay here for a while.”
His eyes widen a fraction. “Stay here,” he repeats.
“Yeah. It’s closer to the city. Easier for me to get to class and to work. It would save your driver a ton of—”
“No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Suddenly, I realize Petyr’s jaw has tightened. “We’re not staying here,” he says coldly. “And you’re not going back to class. Or to work.”
My eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not safe.” He rises, his cup crumpled in his fist. “You’re my wife. That makes you a target.”
“I’m not a porcelain doll.” I stand up, too. “I can handle myself. I’ve handled myself for years, in case you missed that.”
“Believe me, nobody could miss the shithole you used to live in.”
“That was my home,” I say, shaking with anger. “That so-called ‘shithole’—it was my first and only real home. So excuse me if it doesn’t live up to this—” I gesture around us. “—but at least it was fucking mine.”
“Yeah. Your fucking coffin, if any of the spaced-out junkies or drug dealers on your street had decided to come squat it in and give you the boot.”
“But that’s exactly my point, Petyr! I lived there for years and handled it.
You think I never got junkies trying to kick down my door?
Crazies trying to slip in through a crack in the window?
I slept with a baseball bat next to me! And now, you want to talk to me about how safe it is or isn’t to go back to my job and my classes? ”
I watch his throat work. He doesn’t like that I’m pushing back on this. Well, too fucking bad, ‘cause I am.
“You’re my wife,” he says again, like it means something. Like it makes me his property, too.
“That may be,” I concede. “But I’m still my own person. And nowhere in our deal did it say that I had to put my life on indefinite hold for you.”
“You want to back out?” He takes a threatening step towards me. “Is that what this is about?”
“No, Petyr.” I take a step, too, meet him right in the middle. Stare him up head-on. “But I do want my freedom. I’m willing to make concessions, but I’m not willing to lose everything. So if you want this, you’ll learn to compromise, too.”
His nostrils are flaring like a bull’s. For a second, I feel like he’s going to hit something. Me, possibly.
But then he walks back behind the counter.
“Compromise,” he repeats.
“Yes.” I soften my tone. I may be right about this, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy putting more on his plate. Stressing him out more when he’s already worn so thin. “You said you’d take care of me financially, right?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”
“Then I don’t have to go back to work.” I search for his gaze, try to show him I’m serious. I mean it when I say I’m in. “But I’m not quitting my classes.”
He seems to consider it for a bit. “What classes?” he asks eventually.
“Business.” I can’t quite keep the pride out of my voice. “I picked up a few of them at NYU. It’s not a degree, but it’s enough to teach me what to do.”
“For what?”
“My wedding planning agency.” I realize it’s the first time I’ve said that out loud to someone who isn’t Jemma. “I’m tired of working for others. I want to build something of my own.”
For a second, I think I see a flash of admiration on his face. But then his brow knits again. “Why weddings?”
“What?”
“You hate them. The very institution of marriage, if I’m not misremembering.”
“I mean, yeah,” I admit. “But I don’t have to like it to be good at it. Planning a wedding isn’t about feelings.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. Mostly, it’s about the practical stuff. Organizing the guests, setting up the venue. It’s event planning, only with a much higher budget.”
Realization settles over his features. “You like it because it’s lucrative.”
“I do,” I reply. “I’m not ashamed of it.”
“Nor should you.”
I blink. I wasn’t expecting him to agree with me there. “Right,” I say, somewhat shakily. “And besides, business is business. If I’m going to start one, I want it to turn a profit. A big one, ideally.”
Finally, Petyr’s features ease into something softer. Not quite a smile, but a truce. “Sounds like you’ve got the mind for it.”
“Thanks.” Suddenly, I feel my cheeks heat up. “You’re the first to say that to me.”
“Because you don’t like weddings?”
I find myself laughing. “Trust me, if you had my parents, you’d hate weddings, too. Their marriage was a disaster on wheels.”
Petyr’s eyes narrow. “You mean, before the accident?”
Shit.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly. “Before the accident.”
“Most orphans wouldn’t say that about their parents.”
Nope, they sure fucking wouldn’t.
I force myself to meet his gaze. Petyr’s suspicion burns a hole through me, making cold sweat break out at the back of my neck. My palms are clammy, my throat dry.
“I miss them,” I whisper eventually. For once, I hear truth in my voice. “That doesn’t mean they were perfect.”
Petyr studies me for a moment longer. As if trying to sniff out the lie. He’s like a hound when he wants to be. If I don’t stop fucking up in his presence, I may as well start bequeathing all my earthly possessions to Jemma in writing.
And yet, despite the urgency of the moment, I find myself closing my eyes. Thinking of my parents. My father’s cruelty, my mother’s submission. How the light in her eyes slowly dimmed until there was nothing left. Not even the will to fight for her daughter’s future.
They may not have died in a crash, but they’ve been dead to me for a long time.
When I open my eyes again, I don’t know what Petyr sees on my face. But whatever it is, it must be enough.
“We’re going back to the estate,” he says. “But you can go to your classes.”
My heart skips a beat. “Wait, really?”
“Yes.” He grinds out that word like it costs him. “But I want two of my men with you at all times.”
“One,” I push back. “And he stays out the door.”
He looks at me like he can’t believe I’m still arguing with him. That I’m not taking the win.
But the exhaustion on his face is deep, and before long, he’s nodding again, a sigh slipping between his lips. “Fine. One. But he’ll be armed.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
We shake on it. His hand is surprisingly warm. “Thank you,” I whisper. “This means the world to me.”
“I know.” He looks at me in a way I can’t quite decipher. “And you don’t have to worry about your business. When the time comes, I’ll help.”
I blink. “You will?”
“I’m a man of my word, Sima.” His gaze turns that intense shade of gold that makes my knees go weak. “You stick to yours, and I’ll stick to mine.”
A bitter taste spreads on my tongue. Stick to my word… Can I do that, when I’m lying to him with every other word I say? Can I come through with my end of our deal and still protect my secret?
You have to.
You have no other choice.
I swallow the lump in my throat and follow Petyr out the door.