Epilogue Mara
SIX MONTHS LATER
The morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors as I stand in front of my closet, considering what to wear to the gallery today.
Six months ago, this closet didn't exist—or rather, it existed, but it was full of clothes I hadn’t chosen for myself.
Six months ago, I was a captive in this penthouse, fighting against every boundary Ilya tried to impose, terrified of losing myself to his obsession.
Now I wake up here every morning by choice.
I slip into a black silk blouse and tailored charcoal trousers, reaching up to touch the diamond choker at my throat.
I’m two women at once now, always—Mara Winslow, respected art dealer, a woman who can discuss provenance and artistic merit with collectors who have no idea that half the transactions I facilitate serve to hide the money that my boyfriend needs to wash clean, and also Ilya Sorokov's woman, his most treasured possession, an obsession that he’ll never get over.
When I head to the kitchen, I find a still-warm coffee cup in the sink and a note on the counter in Ilya’s sharp handwriting.
Boston today. Back tonight. Kazimir will be nearby if you need anything.
There are no endearments, but I don’t need them.
What means the most to me is that he tells me where he's going now, that he doesn't simply disappear and expect me to accept his absence without explanation.
I pour myself coffee from the pot he left warming and stand at the window, looking out over the city.
From here, I can see my old apartment building across the street, the window of the bedroom where I used to sleep, unaware that I was being watched.
The memory should disturb me more than it does.
Sometimes I think about the woman I was then, the one who believed she understood herself, who thought she knew the limits of her own desires and the boundaries of acceptable behavior.
That woman feels like a stranger now, someone I left behind in a gallery back room with a dead man's blood on her hands.
I've accepted what I am, what I've become.
I've learned to navigate the criminal underworld with the same skill I once reserved only for navigating the art world, using my intelligence and knowledge to expand Ilya's empire while maintaining the legitimacy that my gallery provides.
The money laundering operation I've built is sophisticated and nearly untraceable, moving millions through carefully orchestrated sales and acquisitions that would stand up to any audit.
I've become invaluable to Ilya's organization, and the knowledge fills me with a pride that would have horrified my former self.
The other pakhans who do business with Ilya have learned not to underestimate me.
There was an incident two months ago, a meeting where one of Ilya's associates made the mistake of dismissing me as decorative, speaking over me as if I weren't there.
Ilya simply looked at the man with cold eyes, drew his gun, and set it on the table before saying: "She speaks with the same voice that I do. Disrespect her again and you won’t leave this room alive.
" The man had apologized immediately, and word spread quickly through the organization.
Now when I walk into a room, I'm treated with the same deference they show Ilya, and I'm careful with that. I’m well aware that being feared by powerful men is not the same as being respected, and that there’s always danger.
Everything isn’t perfect. Nothing about this life is perfect, and I'd be lying to myself if I pretended otherwise.
Ilya still struggles with his controlling instincts, still has to fight the urge to lock me away where nothing can touch me.
I catch him watching me sometimes with an intensity that borders on obsessive, and I know he's battling demons I can't fully understand, ghosts of a sister he couldn't save and a childhood that taught him love and loss are inseparable.
We've had arguments about boundaries, about trust, about his possessiveness.
But we've also learned to communicate, and find compromises that honor both our needs.
I finish my coffee and gather my things for the gallery, slipping my phone into my purse alongside the small handgun Ilya insists I carry.
I've learned to shoot over the past six months, spending hours at a private range with him until I could hit a target with deadly accuracy.
The weight of the weapon has become familiar, almost comforting, another symbol of how far I've come from the woman I used to be.
The gallery is quiet when I arrive, the morning light streaming through the windows and illuminating the carefully curated pieces on display.
My assistant, Claire, looks up from her desk, a smile on her face.
She knows something has changed about me over the past six months, though she doesn't know what. I've become more guarded, more careful about what I reveal. It’s made our friendship a little more difficult, especially when my friends met Ilya and I wasn’t able to answer all of their questions about him, but we’ve worked through it.
My life is more complicated with Ilya in it, but I’ve never once felt that it’s not worth it.
"Good morning." I come around the front counter, looking through the mail. "Anything urgent?"
"A few emails from a client who wants you to source a piece for them," she says, handing me a folder. "And a delivery arrived for you about twenty minutes ago."
I take the folder, looking at her curiously. "A delivery?"
She gestures through the open door to my office, to a large box on my desk—matte black with a silver ribbon wrapped around it. There's no return address, but I don't need one. I know exactly who it's from.
I bite my lip against a smile. "Thank you, Claire. Hold my calls for a bit, would you?"
She nods and I walk into the office, closing the door behind me. My pulse picks up as I touch the edge of the box. I’m no stranger to gifts from Ilya by now, but I’m willing to admit that I never get tired of them.
I untie the ribbon and lift the lid, pushing aside layers of tissue paper to reveal a dress—a stunning floor-length gown in deep emerald silk that I know will fit me perfectly.
Ilya knows my measurements as well as I do.
Beneath it there’s a jewelry box containing a pair of drop earrings, alternating diamonds and emeralds that will nearly brush my shoulders.
And beneath that, a card in his handwriting.
Tonight. Eight o'clock. The address below. Wear this.
I trace my fingers over the words, feeling the familiar thrill of anticipation mixed with something that feels dangerously close to contentment.
Six months ago, a note like this would have felt like a command, an assertion of control that I would have resented.
Now it feels like an invitation, a promise of something I want as much as he does.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of emails and client calls, authentication certificates and shipping arrangements.
I've become adept at compartmentalizing, at keeping the different aspects of my life separate.
A collector calls about a Monet that's recently become available, and I discuss brushwork and provenance while mentally calculating how the sale could be structured to move money for one of Ilya's operations.
It's a dance I'm still perfecting, a balancing act between legitimacy and criminal activity, and I'm better at it than I would ever have guessed.
By the time I close the gallery at six, I'm exhausted but also humming with anticipation. I take the box home and spend an hour getting ready, wondering where it is that we’re going tonight.
The dress fits like it was made for me, hugging my curves before flowing to the floor in a cascade of silk.
The earrings brush against my throat, and I put my hair up to show them off to their best effect.
I keep my makeup simple but dramatic—dark eyes and nude lips, and put on a pair of heels that will bring me nearly to Ilya’s height.
Kazimir drives me to the address on the card, an exclusive restaurant that I know Ilya’s been wanting to visit for some time.
It’s the type of restaurant where you only get a reservation if you know someone, and the hostess recognizes me as soon as I walk in.
I’m led through the huge dining room with a vaulted ceiling painted with cherubs and pegasi like an Italian chapel, back into a private room.
Ilya stands as I enter, and the sight of him still has the power to steal my breath even after six months of waking up beside him.
He's wearing a charcoal suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders and lean build, his light blond hair buzzed short, his icy eyes tracking my every movement with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
He's beautiful in a dangerous way, like a dagger or jagged ice… and he’s mine.
Wholly and completely, as I’m his.
"Mara.” His accent caresses my name as I step into the room, letting him pull out my chair as his hand lingers on my shoulder for a moment. The touch sends heat racing through me, a reminder of all the ways he knows my body, all the ways I crave his hands on me.
We’ve both come so far. There’s still possessiveness in him; there always will be, but I’m not a prisoner any longer. And he’s learning how to believe, with every week and month that passes where I’m safe, that he won’t lose me forever just by giving me my freedom.
The dinner is delicious: salt and pepper prawns for an appetizer along with a cheese plate and expensive wine, and an entree of scallops with a delicate risotto. Ilya orders us cheesecake for dessert, feeding me bites in the candlelight, before he finally puts his napkin down and stands.