Chapter Eleven
Audrey
The first thing I do when I wake up is reach for Igor.
My hand glides across the sheets, searching for the warmth of his body, but all I find is cold, empty space.
My eyes fly open.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s barely a couple minutes past seven in the morning, and I was so exhausted after sex last night that I didn’t even notice him slip out of bed.
Memories from last night invade my mind. I bite down on my lip, replaying each of them one by one—how he kissed me, how he fucked me, how made me come and then held me until I fell asleep.
My chest flutters and butterflies grow wings in my stomach, but the feeling disappears as quickly as it came.
I can’t be too happy yet. I still don’t know how Igor will react when I tell him about the person I was working with and that he was behind the attack.
He’ll be mad, rightfully so.
But what comes after?
What if he divorces me, hates me, or decides he no longer wants anything to do with me? I’m becoming used to this life—having him shower me with attention and everything I wanted from him a year ago.
I still don’t have his heart. There’s no guarantee I’ll ever have it, but it won’t help my case when he finds out the truth.
Pain splinters through my chest at the fear of what might happen. Still, I know I can’t keep this a secret. He’ll find out sooner or later, and I’d rather be the one to tell him everything.
I try to move my injured shoulder, but the pain that shoots down the rest of my arm sends a warning that it’s not healed enough for me to use yet. The doctor told me it’ll take at least a month before I can move it without feeling any pain.
Managing to roll out of bed with the help of my other hand, I throw on my robe, slip into my leggings and fur slippers, and head downstairs to look for Igor.
I don’t find him in the kitchen. Instead, I see Dan making breakfast.
“Hey, have you seen my husband?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Nazarov. No, I haven’t seen him.”
He barely even looks at me at me as he answers. Igor’s possessiveness the other day must’ve traumatized him down to his bones.
Poor guy.
Leaving the kitchen, I walk around the mansion, from the patio to the balcony upstairs, and then I check the guestroom and his study. When I don’t see Igor anywhere, I finally accept he’s not home.
I hate the foreboding feeling that claws its way into my thoughts. Igor wouldn’t leave the house this early in the morning, especially without dropping a note, unless it was something urgent.
Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I call my husband twice. The phone goes to voicemail both times.
The churning in my stomach explodes into full-blown anxiety. I need to make sure he’s okay.
I call Sergei, and he answers on the first dial.
“Hey, Sergei, it’s me.” My voice trembles nervously. “Are you with my husband? He wasn’t in bed when I woke up, and he’s not answering my calls.”
There’s a pause on the phone. It stretches too long, making me even more anxious.
“Errm…the boss had an urgent meeting this morning,” he finally answers, though it’s hard to ignore that he doesn’t exactly sound like himself. Something’s off with his tone. “We’re at the club. We won’t be back until later tonight.”
“Uh, okay. Tell him to call me back when he can.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hangs up.
I spend the next two hours texting Igor and having a mini heart attack each time my phone beeps with an incoming message. Still, there’s nothing from him. Not even a text.
I don’t like it.
I know whatever’s going on might have absolutely nothing to do with me, but the eerie feeling inside me keeps growing, making me more restless by the second.
This won’t do.
I need to go find him, and I need to tell him everything while I still have the chance to.
So help me God.
***
I pull out a simple cream-colored knit dress that falls just below my knees—comfortable, elegant, and enough to make heads turn in my direction when I pass, even though the only eyes I want on me are Igor’s.
I don’t bother with makeup.
There doesn’t seem to be much of a point when I’m about to confess something that could make my husband hate me. Instead, I brush my hair until the knots disappear, then leave it loose over my shoulders before fastening the sling securely around my injured arm.
Grabbing the car key to the small Benz, I head to the garage.
“Mrs. Nazarov?”
I turn to find blondie behind me. Since I’m about to escape him, I want to sound serious enough for him to not disobey my orders, but for some reason, I can’t remember his name.
Shit.
His name is… “You’re Dimerian?”
“Dimitri,” he corrects me, then looks at the key in my hand and the black car. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes.” I chuckle nervously. “I’m going to the club. I haven’t seen my husband all day and I need to make sure he’s okay.”
“Oh.” His brows knit disapprovingly. “Should I let the boss know you’re coming?”
I shake my head. “It’s a surprise. You’d ruin it if you gave him a heads-up. Let’s just keep it between us.”
That’s only half the truth.
The other half is that if I call first, he’ll probably tell me to stay home, and I can’t risk anything getting in the way of telling him the truth.
I should’ve come clean after we made love last night, but it had been so peaceful and sweet, and the last thing I wanted was to ruin the moment I spent a year longing for.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Nazarov, but the boss wouldn’t want you driving to the club alone for your own safety. I’ll take you myself and have security follow us.”
I resist rolling my eyes.
While I understand Igor’s concern, especially with my wounded shoulder and the attack a few days ago, I’m already overwhelmed, and the last thing I need is male strangers in my space under the guise of protecting me.
Dimitri doesn’t look like the type that would give in if I told him no, so I just play along.
“Okay, but hurry, because I need to leave soon.”
He nods. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” He turns the other way, basically jogging out of the garage, most likely to get the other guys and change into something more decent for a chaperone.
The moment he’s out of sight, I slip into the car, start the engine, and pull out of the driveway.
My fingers drum anxiously against the steering wheel as I pray to get off the property before he realizes I’m gone while my mind runs through a hundred different scenarios of what I think could be happening to Igor.
Maybe Sergei wasn’t acting strange, and a shipment had an issue or something and Igor was really just busy trying to handle whatever the fuck it is that he couldn’t just pick up his phone and at least send me a text.
Then the last scenario flashes through my thoughts.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, pushing that thought to the back of my head.
No.
I refuse to let my mind go there. There’s no way in the world he already knows my secret. It has to be something else.
During the ride, I calm myself by rehearsing how to tell him. I’ll start by making sure we’re alone. Then I’ll hug him, tell him my arm didn’t hurt as much when I woke up this morning, and apologize before spilling everything.
The towering black building finally comes into view, its familiar neon sign glowing against the afternoon sky. Valets hurry between expensive sports cars while suited men patrol the entrance.
I pull over and climb out of my car, handing the key to one of the valets. To think I was working here only a couple days ago.
I step onto the sidewalk, immediately recognizing several of the guards stationed outside. The moment they see me, they straighten up the same way they would if I was Igor.
One of them walks up to me. I wonder if Dimitri has called Igor to tell him I left. “Welcome, Mrs. Nazarov.”
“Thank you.” I offer him a small smile, though I’m not sure how I can manage one when my heart is nearly jumping out of my chest with fear. “I’m here to see my husband.”
He nods and leads me inside the club.
It’s a Monday night, so the place is barely crowded. Loud music blares through the speakers and neon lights flash in hues of red, green, and blue.
I’m so nauseous it feels like I’m going to throw up any minute. The closer I get to Igor’s office, the louder my heart beats.
The guard stops outside Igor’s office and pushes the door open for me, and I step inside. The first thing I see is Igor standing behind his desk, one hand braced against the polished wood, his broad shoulders rigid beneath his black shirt.
When he lifts his head, our eyes meet.
The smile I was forcing onto my face disappears instantly.
I can feel the tension rising in the room from the look he gives me. The warmth that’s become so familiar over the past few days is gone, replaced by an icy calm that sends a chill racing down my spine.
Every word I rehearsed on my way down here dies in my throat. I don’t speak.
I can’t speak.
Because the look in his eyes tells me he already knows.