Chapter 42
CHAPTER 42
MARINA
T wo Months later
“Hey Marina, that hot guy is back in your section,” Anna said, giving me a knowing smirk as she strolled into the kitchen and stole another one of my fries.
“Really?” I asked, my heart stuttering in my chest, excitement bubbling up inside of me before I could tamp it down.
“Yep, and girl, I pulled out all the stops. I even wore my best push-up bra today. He didn’t even look at me. It was all in vain. That man clearly only has eyes for you.”
I wanted to say that good husbands could be like that, but the words felt dangerous on my tongue. I swallowed them down, forcing a laugh instead. He wasn’t my husband anymore. Not really. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?
Still, I ducked into the bathroom to check my reflection, smoothing out stray hairs and reapplying my lip gloss with hands that trembled more than they should have. Why did I care?
The last few months had been strange. I knew when I ran it was in vain, but I couldn't just sit there and do nothing. If I had stayed, it would have been a surrender.
So, in a desperate, reckless attempt to take control of my own life, I stole a car from Gregor Ivanov and ran.
Kostya had been on my trail before I even crossed the Virginia state border. I could feel him before I saw him, a dark shadow pressing against my skin. And when I finally glanced in the rearview mirror, there he was, behind the wheel of a sleek, black sports car.
One of Gregor’s favorites, Yelena had mentioned. One he never lets anyone touch.
But Kostya had taken it. Because this was personal.
I should have been terrified. I was. But there was another feeling there too, something hot and aching that I refused to name.
I was caught, and I knew it. Except...he never closed the distance. Never chased me down.
I stopped for gas twice, using a credit card I had stolen from his wallet like a taunt, daring him to react. But he didn’t.
Instead, he let me run.
And that scared me more than anything.
Had he finally given up? Decided I wasn’t worth the trouble? The second that thought entered my mind, I knew it was wrong. Kostya didn’t let things go.
By the time I reached my old, rented room in Chicago, my belongings were gone. All of them .
The only thing left was a note with an address and a key.
No threats. No commands. Just a simple, silent message.
He was still playing with me.
A slow, twisting fear wrapped around my ribs. Not because I didn’t know what was coming, because I did. Because I had fought so hard to escape, and yet some desperate, shameful part of me was already thinking about running straight back into his arms.
I sank onto the edge of the bare mattress, my hands clenched in my lap. This was it.
I had made my valiant effort. Time and time again. And now?
Now, it was time to face whatever punishment my husband had waiting for me.
And the worst part? I wasn’t sure if I feared it…or wanted it.
The address led me to a penthouse apartment overlooking Lake Michigan.
It was stunning. Every inch of it was sleek and commanding, with dark furniture and bold, clean lines that reflected the steel and glass of the city outside. Depending on which room I was in, I had breathtaking views of the river, the lake, and the endless stretch of Chicago’s skyline. I was even close enough to Navy Pier to watch the fireworks in the summer.
If I was still here that long.
The place felt like Kostya. The power in the space was unmistakable. It wasn’t just the expensive furnishings or the luxury, it was him. His presence lingered in the walls, in the way the shadows stretched through the floor-to-ceiling windows at night. I had no idea why he had a penthouse here.
But I knew exactly why I was in it.
That first night, I sat in silence, breathless, waiting for the inevitable. I expected him to storm through the door, expected his fury, expected him to remind me exactly why running had been futile.
But he never came.
Night after night, I sat there, waiting for him. Dreading him. Hoping for him.
And still—nothing.
By the end of the week, my nerves were shredded. The waiting was unbearable. The silence was worse. Kostya was out there, watching, circling, and I had no idea when he would strike. Or if he even would.
At some point, I forced myself to stop living in limbo. If he wasn’t going to come for me, then I had to keep moving. I returned to my old job, not because I needed the money. He hadn’t even cut off his card. No, I went back because I needed something, anything, to hold onto. The restaurant had always felt safe, familiar. It was something normal.
For a little while, I let myself pretend.
But then, on my third shift, I felt it.
A presence. A change in the air.
Not the sharp, crawling sensation of a threat. This was different. It wasn’t someone hunting me. It was someone watching over me.
I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Kostya .
I didn’t know how I knew…I just did.
But the strangest part wasn’t that he was there. It was that he was still keeping his distance. He hadn’t stormed into my life, hadn’t dragged me back to wherever he thought I belonged. He hadn’t even spoken to me.
Why?
The question ate at me, gnawed at the edges of my resolve.
At first, my anxiety was unbearable. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the moment he would finally decide he’d had enough of the game. But the longer the days stretched without him making a move, the more that fear twisted into something worse.
I missed him.
At night, lying in that massive bed surrounded by luxury, I stared out at the glittering skyline and imagined him there beside me.
The Chicago winter arrived early, bringing brutal winds and heavy snowfall, but I barely felt it. The cold had settled inside me long before the temperature dropped.
No matter how high I turned up the thermostat, no matter how thick the blankets—without Kostya, I was freezing.
Two weeks passed before he finally appeared.
He sat at a table in my section as if it were just another night. His presence commanding and utterly unmoved.
I felt him before I saw him.
The moment my eyes met his, my stomach twisted into a knot so tight it hurt.
I forced myself forward, my head low, waiting for the storm. I was ready for his anger, for the inevitable punishment, for the moment he reminded me that I was his.
But all he did was look at me calmly and ask, "What do you recommend?"
It had to be a game.
I didn’t like being toyed with.
So I brought him borscht. The thick, rich soup should have been a jab, a reminder of home, of something deeper.
But he ate it without complaint.
Paid.
And left.
Like nothing had ever happened.
And that was more terrifying than anything else he could have done.
The next day, he came back.
And the next.
Every time, he asked the same question. “What should I have today?”—and every day, I gave him a different answer. Some choices were more adventurous than others, little culinary tests to see if he would balk. But Kostya ate every bite without complaint, paid his bill, and left.
It wasn’t long before I started bringing him my favorite dishes. The ones that meant something. I even had the kitchen make special orders just for him. Vareniki I helped shape by hand, the way my grandmother had taught me, the way I had never had the chance to show him before.
The day I placed a plate of crispy, golden potato and onion pancakes in front of him, something shifted inside me. Instead of walking away, I took my break and sat across from him, watching him expectantly as he lifted the first bite to his lips.
He didn’t speak.
But the moment his eyes fluttered shut in bliss, a low groan of appreciation slipping from his throat, satisfaction flooded through me in a way I hadn’t expected.
I did that. I gave him this moment of pleasure.
"Do you like it?" I asked, needing to hear him say it.
Kostya simply nodded, chewing slowly, savoring every second.
And that was how it started.
Day after day, he came in. Day after day, I brought our meals, and we sat together, lingering over lunch.
We talked about nothing. The weather, the best places to go in Chicago, how terrible the traffic was on Michigan Avenue. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand anything from me. And somehow, that made me crave him more than ever.
A month passed before I found the courage to ask the question that had been burning inside me since the moment he first sat down.
“Why are you here?”
He leaned back, taking his time, brushing the crumbs from his fingers before answering.
“My wife tells me that appreciating food is the second greatest pleasure in life.”
I tilted my head, heart already beating faster. “And the first?”
Kostya’s gaze locked onto mine, steady, unwavering. “The greatest pleasure in life? That would be my wife.”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks, but I didn’t look away .
“Kostya,” I whispered, my voice softer now, no longer teasing. “What are you really doing here?”
His lips twitched at the corners, a hint of amusement in his expression.
“I was informed that I am arrogant and heavy-handed.”
I scoffed, arching an eyebrow. “That couldn’t have come as a surprise.”
This time, he smirked.
“No, not really,” he admitted. “But it was pointed out that in my attempts to keep my wife safe, I forgot to ask her what she wanted. That I never took the time to get to know her well enough to handle things the way she would want them handled.”
A lump formed in my throat. He had been listening.
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” I said, even though I already knew.
Kostya held my gaze. “It does. I’m here trying to date my wife. To learn what she loves. And what makes her happy…to get her to choose me.”
Oh.
The realization hit me all at once, slamming into me with the force of everything I had been trying to deny.
I had spent so long fighting, so long running, trapped in the cycle of fear, guilt, and doubt. But the truth had been there all along, waiting for me to accept it.
I loved him.
I wanted him.
And now, I finally knew with every piece of me that he loved me, too.
I smiled, slow and teasing as I leaned forward, reaching across the table to lace my fingers through his. His grip tightened immediately, firm and warm, grounding me in the moment.
“You know,” I mused, letting my voice drop into something softer, more intimate, more certain. “If we count these lunches as dates, then you and I are well past our third.”
Kostya went perfectly still.
I squeezed his hand, my smile turning wicked. “And you know what they say about third dates?—”
His chair scraped back so fast that it clattered to the floor. I gasped, laughter bubbling out of me as he stood, his sharp blue gaze burning into mine with something raw, something desperate, something undeniable.
He didn’t give me time to think.
Didn’t give me time to doubt.
Kostya pulled me to my feet and swept me into his arms. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. But I didn’t care.
I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent, wrapping my arms around him as he carried me straight out of the restaurant.
I leaned close, lips brushing his ear as I whispered the only thing that mattered. "Take me home."