Chapter 18
Cecilia
Mikhail and I are on the streets of New York, entering a high-end bridal store together.
My palms are slick, my frantic pulse hammering against my ribs as I follow him, clinging to his confidence.
As much as I appreciate him bringing me here, the looks I’m getting from the stylists and sales consultants are unnerving.
“Good morning, sir,” a clerk greets him. “Do you have an appointment today? And if yes, may I please have your name?”
Mikhail simply pulls out a black Amex and places it on the front desk. I don’t miss the way the clerk frowns at the tattoos on his knuckles.
“My lovely wife here would like to try on some dresses,” Mikhail says. “Wedding’s in two days, you see. I’m sure you’ll be able to accommodate her.”
My lovely wife.
I know that’s just the way he speaks—like he takes nothing seriously—but I can’t help the butterflies from forming in my stomach or the heat skittering down my spine.
“Oh—” the man says. “We’re…um…we’re currently in private appointments, but I’d love to help you book a time so we can give her the full experience.”
A dark chuckle has my eyes widened in shock. I’ve been around Mikhail enough to know what that means. Trouble.
“False,” he says, cracking his neck muscles. “You’re currently in one private appointment, and it’s this one right here. You can either take my money to book us in, or you can take a bullet to the mouth instead. Either way, someone here is giving my wife the full experience. Am I fucking clear?”
I gasp, my eyes trained on him as a terrible realization hits me. I’m not nearly as scared as I should be.
The man—half the size of Mikhail and polished in prudence—stands awkwardly. He swallows, his gaze averting to his colleagues, who look equally distressed.
“I… um…” the clerk says. “Of—of course. We’d be happy to—”
“Attaboy.” Mikhail grabs my hand and, leaving the Amex card on the desk, he gently pulls me with him farther into the shop.
His hands are warm and calloused against my soft skin, sending buzzing electricity through my body that makes my chest struggle with the next breath.
Suddenly, I’m just as jittery as the others, but for an entirely different reason.
“C-Can I offer you coffee, water… tea or champagne?” Another person—a woman, this time—chimes in.
“Cecilia?” Mikhail looks at me.
“Oh. Nothing for me. We’ve already disturbed you too much—”
“She’ll have one of each. And sparkling water for me,” Mikhail says. The woman nods dramatically, disappearing into an adjacent room, and he turns to me. “Stop doing that. I don’t like it,” he says.
“Doing what?”
“Giving people around you so much fucking power. If you want something, ask for it. That’s how it works.”
“You just threatened to kill these people, and I’m supposed to ask for champagne on top of that?”
His gaze darkens, his index finger pushing up my chin as he drowns me in his malachite colored eyes. “Ask for anything, anytime. So long as you are my wife, the world better fucking bow at your feet and beg for your demands. Understood?”
Heat pushes up my neck, traitorous and undeniable.
I know what this is, and it has nothing to do with him caring about my wants—no one ever does.
Once again, it’s about power. Possession.
About showing the world who owns me to satisfy whatever sick need he harbors inside.
Yet despite all of this, I still lean into the illusion.
It’s better than being invisible for once.
“I asked you a question,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Yes. Fine. I’ll ask for things.”
“Lovely.” He grins, letting go of my chin at last. My skin tingles in his wake.
Much to Mikhail’s delight, when the stylist comes back with our drinks, she starts asking me a bunch of questions about what I want. Sleeves or strapless? Deep V or a high neckline? Oscar de la Renta or Vera Wang?
At first, she has to pry the answers out of me like pulling teeth, earning me warning looks from Mikhail that make it easy to comply.
Not because he scares me—at least, not at the moment—but because it’s nice having someone paying attention to how many times I put myself down.
Back home, no one ever told me doing it wasn’t right.
Eventually, with every answer I offer, I begin to loosen up. Even Mikhail chimes in occasionally from where he went to sit down, sharing similar opinions to mine. It’s almost comical, in a way. He has managed to coordinate everyone on a whim and somehow we’ve all embraced the situation at hand.
“Alright, let’s zip this up…” the stylist bubbles next to me behind the curtain of my changing room. But if she says anything else after that, I’m not hearing it. All I can focus on is my reflection in the mirror, wearing the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen in my life.
The bodice is sleeveless, featuring an asymmetrical neckline that subtly accentuates the shape of my round breasts, drawing the eye up.
Where it meets the skirt below, the designer added a draped overlay of satin that softens the transition without having it squeeze my waist. And beneath the satin…
a beaded skirt adds just enough sophistication to not make the dress look too bland.
It’s perfect. It’s me. It’s everything Ms. Donatello’s dress choice was not.
My attention is brought back to the stylist as she opens the curtains and steps aside. I brush my hands down my thighs, analyzing every detail. Loving the way I suddenly feel happy when all I should feel is dread.
“Leave,” Mikhail says behind me, my eyes darting to his reflection in the mirror. Unlike earlier, he doesn’t scrunch his nose again. Instead, his face is slightly tense, jaw clenched as he looks me up and down.
“I think… I really like this one,” I murmur.
He steps closer, completely silent, the stylist now gone. The room is awfully empty, and I blame my uneven breathing pattern on this fact alone.
Slowly, he raises his hand to my collarbone, tracing it with just his fingertips.
I shiver. Each stroke feels like a whisper against my skin.
A sweet, aching fire that brings back memories of me and him.
There, in that basement, when he pretended to want me, and I pretended he wasn’t on my mind constantly.
“You will wear your hair down,” he purrs, tucking a strand behind my ear. My pulse jumps, and I hate that he notices. “And a necklace at the base of your neck—pearls, or diamonds, or whatever gem you prefer.”
“I thought you said…” I swallow. “I shouldn’t listen to what other people tell me to do.”
A slow shake of his head. “Only me. From now on, you’ll only do what your husband says.”
I let out a shaky breath. I shouldn’t stand here and listen to this utter nonsense. I should never want to please this man. Yet the question—the shameless flirt—pours out of me before I can stop it.
“And what if you’ll corrupt me? What then?” I ask.
His head lowers to take in my silhouette, and I can feel his warm breath tickling my back.
“If I manage to corrupt you, Cecilia, it only means you want to be mine.”
I try not to notice the bitter taste of disappointment on my tongue when he steps back.
Back at the penthouse, we shuck our coats and unwind our scarves after Mikhail tells me we’re staying the night. The energy between us feels dense, crackling from whatever happened earlier. A simple accidental brush of our arms would be enough to set me ablaze.
Had he not said those things to me…had he not touched me the way he did, I would’ve convinced myself I imagined it. But the feel of his fingers on my collarbone, in my hair—God, it lingers, warm and treacherous, even under all these layers of clothes.
I wrap my arms around myself, following him farther into the apartment, because I don’t know what else to do.
The living room is now empty of all the ugly dresses, as if he snapped his fingers and banished them from existence.
Does he have any staff here? And if yes, why do I never see any of them?
Somehow, Mikhail feels like an outcast by choice—someone who does things his way without asking anyone for permission.
That would explain the lack of guards. And the torture he endured a few days ago.
“Hungry?” he asks. Right on cue, my stomach grumbles, and the corner of his mouth curves up.
I simply shrug. “Are you going to cook?”
“Please,” he snorts. “You need food, not a night in the ER. What do you want?”
What do I want.
Always that question. I climb a bar stool, flicking my mind over the possibilities as a kernel of silent power coils around me. I could ask for anything, couldn’t I? He’d make it happen. Not because he cares about me, of course, but because I’ll share his name.
“Maybe pizza?” I suggest, sheepishly. “The deep-dish kind?”
“Sweetheart…” He slumps his powerful shoulders, arms propped on the kitchen island as he sighs dramatically. “One, that was a question, not a statement. It invites the other person to push back on your request. Two, deep-dish pizza is gross, but sure…have at it.”
My body tingles at his reaction, and it’s too much of an effort not to smile as I watch him make a call to put in the order.
Chewing on my lower lip, I wonder what all of this means.
Him advocating for me, wanting me to tell him what I need…
I never expected it, and it makes me realize I don’t, in fact, know that much about the man I’m about to marry.
“Yes?” he asks when he’s done with the phone, looking to where the golden-brown of my hair cascades over my shoulders.
It’s in the depths of those green eyes I see something different from amusement and nonchalance for once—curiosity.
A fascination that takes over his stance as he leans in ever so slightly.
“Why do you have this apartment? I thought you lived at the estate,” I say, suppressing the bigger questions I want to ask.
“I prefer it here. No one’s breathing down my neck. Plus, I always come to New York for business anyway, and, unlike my brother, I don’t need to hide in my hometown.”
“Hm. No hiding, no bodyguards,” I say, pensively. “Exactly how many lives do you have?”
“One. But I make it good enough to feel like nine.”
I huff out a laugh. “Is this where we’ll live?”
“I will. You can choose wherever you want. If you don’t want the estate or the penthouse, I can arrange for something else.”
Disappointment bangs at that space beneath my breastbone, but I make sure to keep the careless smile on my face. “So I can just go back to the West Coast? To San Maleno?”
“Pass. It would be too difficult to get to you. And I don’t like the weather there.”
“Oh,” I blurt out. “So I can only choose what I want to do with my life as long as you don’t veto it. Noted.”
He pulls back with a smile, snatching two crystal glasses and a bottle of Macallan whiskey. “What do you want to do with your life?”
His question surprises me, because he asks it as if he’s actually interested. “Why does it matter if I’m to do what you want anyway?”
“You fascinate me.”
“Why? You stalked me. Don’t you know everything already?”
He pours the drinks and then slides one over to me across the island. “I don’t always know what you’re thinking. There is still plenty to be fascinated about.”
I lick my lips, his initial question still brushing against my mind. And maybe it’s because I never get to talk about my dream with anyone, or because he seems genuinely interested in what I have to say, but the answer rolls off my tongue effortlessly.
“I want to be a pianist,” I say.
“Aren’t you one already?”
“An eminent one, I meant.”
“Why?”
“Because…” I look down, softly drumming my fingers against the whiskey glass. “Music has always been a part of me. My mother used to play me lullabies when I was little, and it’s the only thing I still have of her. Now that she’s gone, I want the world to see her in me when I’m on stage.”
“Your recital was the only time you’ve been on stage,” he says knowingly. “That makes no sense. You’re fucking talented.”
That frantic heartbeat again.
I do my best to ignore it, but the pull of his words is stronger than my will.
I’m fucking talented, he says.
“I’m not ready yet… Maybe in a few years, if—”
“Is that what you think?” he asks. “Or is that somebody else’s opinion?”
“Well—” I ponder. “I still make mistakes, and…yes, everyone makes them, but…my mental health hasn’t been where it should be. Ms. Donatello says—”
“Ah,” he drawls with a smile.
“No, don’t be like that. I don’t know why you dislike her, but she’s been like a mother to me. Of course, I don’t expect you to understand, let alone care.”
This time, his face is completely unreadable as he continues to stare at me, eyes swarming with something I can’t put my finger on.
“She’s good at pretending she knows best, I’ll give her that,” he says. “But I do wonder what she’ll do when you start to remember.”
My stomach flips with unease, my hand freezing on the glass of whiskey. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He downs his drink, ignoring me as he saunters over to the elevator, slipping a bill to the delivery person. I’m so caught up in those last few words, I haven’t even realized the pizza arrived.
Until I start to remember…? Remember what, exactly?
“Eat up and go to bed,” he says, placing the boxes in front of me on the kitchen island. “I’ll be out for a few hours.”