Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Calina
I’ve been so worked up lately. The wedding planning, the uncertainty, the way my body keeps betraying me around Maxim. I need an outlet before I explode.
Cooking has always been my escape. Back home, I used to cook for the family.
Standing in a kitchen, chopping, stirring, creating something warm and nourishing, it grounded me. I miss them. I miss my family so much it aches.
I glance at the clock. The cook should start preparing dinner soon.
I head downstairs and find Mrs. Petrova in the large, modern kitchen, a middle-aged woman with warm brown eyes, soft curves, and her dark hair pulled into a neat bun. She has a kind, motherly face and a gentle smile.
“Good evening,” I say, offering her a small smile.
“Good evening, Miss,” she responds with a warm smile. “May I help you with anything?”
“I was thinking… maybe I could cook tonight?”
The woman looks at me like I’ve suggested setting the house on fire.
“Oh no, Miss Calina,” she says quickly, eyes wide. “The boss would never allow that. You’re not supposed to touch anything in the kitchen.”
I expected resistance, but I’m not backing down. “Please. I really want to. I used to cook all the time for my family. It helps me… to de-stress.”
Her eyes widen. “Perhaps I can make you some lavender tea?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Actually, I’ve been craving homemade pelmeni. The real Siberian kind, with the thin dough and juicy filling. Do you know how to make them?”
The cook’s expression softens a little. “Yes, I do. But Mr. Orlov—”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” I promise. “Just this once. You’ve been on your feet cooking for everyone. You just came back from leave, let me help. We can do it together. Please?”
She hesitates, clearly torn between her fear of Maxim and my pleading. After a long moment, she sighs.
“Alright… but only because you look like you need this. And you must tell the boss it was your idea.”
“Deal.”
We start prepping together. The kitchen fills with the comforting rhythm of chopping onions, mixing ground meat with spices, rolling out the dough.
For the first time in days, my hands are busy and my mind feels quieter.
Olga––she has told me to call her by her first name––is warm and chatty, telling me little stories about the garden and how her husband fusses over the roses. And I end up convincing her to sit down and keep me company instead of hovering.
She protests at first, but eventually settles onto a stool at the kitchen island with a cup of tea, watching me work with a mild horror.
As I knead the dough for the pelmeni, we talk. She tells me she and her husband have worked for Maxim for over a decade. How he’s a good boss, strict, but fair.
How he gave them time off when her husband was ill last month, sending them to one of his private cabins upstate for two weeks so they could rest. He paid for everything and told them not to worry about work.
The way she speaks about him is warm, almost motherly. Like she’s talking about a son she’s proud of. It catches me off guard.
This woman doesn’t have to say anything good about her boss, yet here she is, speaking fondly of how kind he’s been to them.
It makes me see Maxim in a different light. One I’m not sure I want to acknowledge.
Just then, voices echo from the hallway. Dmitri and Viktor walk into the kitchen.
Dmitri’s face lights up with a charming smile the moment he sees me at the stove. “Well, hello. This is a surprise.”
Viktor, on the other hand, looks as broody and suspicious as ever, frowning like I’ve committed a crime by being in the kitchen.
Dmitri leans against the counter, watching me with open interest. “What are you making? It smells incredible.”
“Pelmeni,” I reply, trying to stay civil. “The real kind.”
Dmitri inhales deeply. “God, I haven’t had good homemade pelmeni in years.”
“You never told me you wanted them,” Olga remarks.
Dmitri flashes her a charming smile. “Oh come on Olga, you know I don’t like to burden you.”
Olga rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath about Dmitri being too charming for his own good.
Dmitri returns his attention to me. “It’s a surprise to see you cooking though.”
Olga sighs. “I already told her she’s not supposed to be cooking. I’m sure Mr. Orlov will have my head for this.”
I wave her off for the umpteenth time. “Maxim isn’t going to do anything. I asked to cook. It’s therapeutic for me.”
Viktor makes a snide sound. “Can you cook, or are you just playing house?”
I shoot him a sharp look. The tension between us is mutual. I don’t like him, and he clearly doesn’t like me. “I’ve been cooking for my family since I was a teenager. I think I can handle it.”
“Leave her alone, Viktor. I’m sure the food is going to taste as good as it smells. Can I have a taste?”
Dmitri tastes a small piece I offer him and groans in appreciation. “This is excellent. I’m definitely sticking around for dinner.”
Viktor rolls his eyes. “You like food too much.”
Dmitri smiles. “What can I say? I’m not you, living on air and water like some brooding ascetic.”
Viktor just shakes his head and mutters something under his breath as they both leave.
Once they’re gone, Olga gives me a knowing look. “Don’t mind Viktor. He’s a softie on the inside, just like Mr. Maxim. They don’t warm up to people easily, but they’re good men.”
I hum noncommittally. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
But her words linger. I don’t want to see him as anything other than the cold, calculating man who took me. It’s easier that way.
Maxim
I’ve developed several skills over the years in this life. And one of which is, the ability to tell when someone is lying to me.
The micro-expressions, the way their voice cracks, the desperate details they add when they’re trying too hard. But this man… something tells me he’s not lying.
I’ve been working on him for hours.
I’ve done everything, broken bones, cut flesh, threatened his wife and children with a live video feed of them tied up and terrified. Yet he keeps repeating the same story, over and over.
He didn’t leak the documents. He didn’t even see them. He’s just a low-level driver who works one of our warehouses.
A critical shipping route document was leaked to our enemies. The entire consignment was hijacked. Three of my men were killed. The trail led us to him.
I flex my bloody knuckles, staring down at the half-dead man whimpering in the chair. His face is unrecognizable, one eye swollen shut, blood dripping from his split lips.
He’s pleading for his life, but the story hasn’t changed once. Either he’s one of the best liars I’ve ever encountered… or he’s telling the truth.
The door opens behind me. Viktor and Dmitri walk in.
“Still nothing?” Viktor asks, eyeing the broken man.
“No,” I growl. “He keeps saying the same fucking thing. He didn’t do it.”
I wanted to handle this one myself. Normally, when I get my hands dirty, people break within minutes. Hours at most. This one is tougher than expected.
I turn to them. “Are you sure this is the right guy? Because he’s sticking to his story like it’s gospel.”
Viktor crosses his arms. “He might actually be telling the truth. He’s too low-level to have access to that kind of document.”
Dmitri shakes his head. “My investigation led straight to him. Phone logs, timestamps at the warehouse, everything pointed here.”
I’m pissed. I’ve wasted hours on the wrong target.
I glare at Dmitri. “Either your investigation is wrong, or someone higher up fed him the information and used him as a scapegoat.”
Dmitri holds his ground. “This is our guy. I’m sure of it.”
Viktor exhales heavily. “If he’s not, we’re back to square one. I’ll go dig deeper.”
Dmitri checks his watch and smirks. “I will join you in doing that after. I’m waiting for dinner. That meal Calina is cooking smells way too good.”
I freeze.
“Calina is cooking?”
Dmitri grins, rubbing his palms together. “Yeah. She’s in the kitchen with Olga right now. She’s making pelmeni. The whole place smells amazing.”
I stare at him for a second. She’s cooking. In my kitchen.
Without another word, I drop the bloody rag and head for the door.
Viktor calls after me, “What about him?”
“Keep him alive for now,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ll decide later.”
I walk into the kitchen and stop dead.
Calina is standing at the counter wearing tiny black shorts and a thin top, a white apron tied around her waist. Her golden hair is swept up in a messy bun with loose strands sticking to her damp forehead.
She’s flushed from the heat, a light sheen of sweat on her neck and collarbone. The sight is so fucking domestic it knocks the air out of my lungs.
She looks like she belongs here. Like she belongs in my house. In my kitchen. In my life.
Olga is sitting on a stool, watching her, she’s speaking but I can’t register anything she’s saying. The whole kitchen smells incredible, savory meat, spices, fresh dough.
None of them seem to notice me until I speak. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”
Calina looks up and freezes when she sees me. Same as Olga.
“I… she wanted to cook. I told her she didn’t have to—”
I raise my hand and Olga immediately stops talking.
Calina turns to me, chin lifting in that defiant way I’m starting to crave. “She’s right, I insisted on doing this.”
I step closer, unable to keep my eyes off her. “Did you now? So, you know how to cook?”
She rolls her eyes. “Seriously? Yes, I know how to cook. I’ve been doing it for my family for years.”
I watch her hands move with practiced ease as she folds the pelmeni. “What are you making?”
“Siberian pelmeni,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice.
I’m genuinely shocked. And impressed.
Dmitri pokes his head in. “Is the food ready yet? Because I’m hun—”
“Get out,” I growl.
Dmitri laughs but backs away immediately. “Sorry boss.”
Olga excuses herself quickly, leaving just the two of us in the kitchen.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
She glances at me. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
She’s right. And for the first time, I realize I actually want to know them. I want to know what makes her tick, what she likes, what she dreams about.
I quickly remind myself this is a marriage of convenience. Nothing more. I don’t need to know her. But I want to.
The timer on the oven goes off.
“Dessert is ready,” she says, opening the oven. The sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon fills the kitchen.
She even made dessert.
I step closer. “What can I help with?”
She turns and her eyes drop to my bloody knuckles and shirt. For a split second I see something flicker across her face. Worry and then relief when she realizes none of the blood is mine.
“You can help by getting cleaned up,” she says, turning back to the stove. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
I couldn’t clean up any faster.
I took the quickest shower of my life, threw on a button-down and trousers, and headed downstairs, still damp at the collar.
She made dinner. Calina Morozova, the woman I forced into my house, is in my kitchen cooking. The thought alone has me equal parts suspicious and ridiculously curious to taste whatever she made.
When I reach the dining room, I stop short.
Dmitri and Viktor are already there. Dmitri is laughing at something she said while helping set the table, placing plates with that easy charm of his.
Viktor is actually carrying a bowl, looking less murderous than usual. The three of them look… comfortable.
“What the hell are you two doing here?” I growl.
Calina turns toward me quickly, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I asked them to stay for dinner.”
Dmitri grins, completely unbothered. “I’m starving, boss. We’ve been waiting for you, please can we eat now?”
Viktor snorts. “You’re always starving.”
I narrow my eyes at all of them, but especially at Dmitri, who is standing far too close to her for my liking. Before I can tell them to leave, Calina gives me a look that says don’t you dare.
We sit down.
The moment I take the first bite of the pelmeni, I freeze.
It’s… incredible. The dough is perfectly thin, the filling savory and seasoned just right, bursting with flavor.
For a second, I’m transported, not to some fancy restaurant, but to a memory I rarely let myself touch.
A rare good day in the orphanage when one of the older cooks made something similar with whatever scraps they had. Warmth. Full belly. The illusion of care.
I don’t speak for a long moment. I just eat.
Conversation flows, mostly between Calina, and Dmitri, while Viktor and I eat in silence.
I can’t stop looking at her.
The way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Every small movement pulls my attention like a magnet.
I take another bite, watching her across the table, wondering how the hell this woman has managed to turn my entire world upside down in just a few days.