Chapter 5
VERA
I wake up alone.
The realization hits me before I even open my eyes. The bed is too cold and the space beside me is untouched. At some point during the night, I’d reached out in my sleep (some unconscious hope that maybe he’d come back? I don’t know) but my hand found only empty sheets.
Of course he didn’t come back. Why would he?
I lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, and I try not to think about last night and remember the way my body responded to him, the sounds I made, the way I cried out his name like—
Stop it.
But I can’t stop it. The memories assault me in vivid, mortifying detail.
The heat of his skin against mine. The way his hands caressed my body.
The intensity in those gray eyes when he commanded me to look at him.
And worst of all—the pleasure. The overwhelming, consuming pleasure that had torn through me like nothing I’d ever experienced.
Alexei always made sure I was comfortable and that I felt cherished. Our lovemaking had been about connection, about tenderness, about two people who cared for each other expressing that through touch.
Last night was nothing like that.
Last night was possession. Dominance. Dimitri taking what was his by law, marking me, claiming me in a way that should have been the worst thing ever and nothing else.
But it wasn’t just that and that’s what makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
Because some twisted, traitorous part of me had wanted it and responded to the roughness and the command in his voice.
My body had betrayed me in the worst possible way, coming apart so completely that I’d lost myself entirely.
I betrayed Alexei.
The thought hurts so badly it feels like someone has stabbed me. Alexei, who loved me. Alexei, who made me laugh. Who talked about our future together with such hope in his beautiful blue eyes. Alexei, whose body is barely cold in the ground, whose baby is growing inside me right now.
And I let his brother fuck me. I let Dimitri touch me, take me, and I enjoyed it.
I’m a terrible person. The worst kind of person.
Hot tears spill down my temples and into my hair, but I don’t make a sound. I just lie there in that massive bed, in this stranger’s house, and I hate myself with a viciousness that takes my breath away.
My hand moves to my stomach, pressing against the flat plane. Thank God there’s no sign yet that there’s a baby, but I know. I know there’s a tiny life growing there. Alexei’s child. Our miracle. The last piece of him that exists in this world.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the baby who can’t hear me yet. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to—”
But what does it matter what I meant or wanted? It happened. And now I have to live with the knowledge that less than two weeks after losing Alexei, I was in another man’s bed. His brother’s bed. Crying out in pleasure while pregnant with Alexei’s baby.
The guilt wraps around my throat like hands, squeezing, making it hard to breathe. I curl onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, and I let the tears come silently. My whole body shakes with sobs I can’t voice, grief and shame and self-loathing pouring out of me in waves.
How could I? How could my body respond like that to a man who hates me? Who married me for revenge? Who only touched me to establish ownership?
And the worst part (the part that makes me want to disappear entirely) is that some small, horrible part of me wants it to happen again. I want to feel that intensity, that loss of control, that overwhelming pleasure that made me forget everything else for just a few moments.
I’m disgusting. A terrible girlfriend. A terrible person. Alexei deserved so much better than me.
The room gradually lightens as dawn breaks outside the windows.
The gauzy curtains do little to block the morning sun, and eventually, I force myself to sit up.
My body aches in unfamiliar places—evidence of last night written in soreness and tenderness.
My inner thighs. The places where Dimitri’s fingers dug into my hips. The slight rawness between my legs.
Physical proof of what happened. Evidence I can’t erase or pretend away.
I need to shower and wash away the scent of him that still clings to my skin, the evidence of last night. I need to get rid of the shame that feels like it’s coating every inch of me.
The bathroom is obscenely luxurious with marble and gold fixtures and a shower that could fit six people.
I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it and step under the spray.
The water pounds against my skin, almost painful, but I welcome it.
I scrub myself raw, using the soaps and shampoos that were waiting for me, trying to erase every trace of what happened.
But no amount of scrubbing can wash away the memories. Or the guilt. Or the fear of what comes next.
Because this wasn’t a one-time thing, no matter what Dimitri said. I’m his wife now. And wives have... expectations. Duties. Will he come to my bed again? Will he expect me to submit to him whenever he wants? The thought makes my stomach turn even as unwanted heat flickers low in my belly.
I don’t know how long I stand under that water. It’s long enough that my skin turns pink and the bathroom fills with steam and the water begins to run lukewarm. Finally, I force myself out, wrapping myself in a fluffy, cream towel.
When I return to the bedroom, I find clothes laid out on the bed.
Not my clothes. I don’t own clothes like these. They’re clearly designer and expensive. The soft cashmere sweater in dove gray, dark skinny jeans, delicate lace undergarments still in their packaging. Even the socks are luxury brand, impossibly soft.
Someone came in while I was showering and the thought makes my skin crawl. I was naked and vulnerable just feet away, and someone (Mrs. Kozlov probably, with her cold eyes and disapproving mouth) came in and left these things for me.
Like I’m a doll to be dressed. A possession to be maintained.
I want to refuse them and put on my wedding dress again just to spite whoever chose these clothes. I could be the newest Miss Havisham, going through the rest of my life in a ratty wedding dress.
But that’s childish, and besides, I have nothing else to wear. Everything I owned is back at my father’s house, in my old bedroom with the pale blue walls and photographs of a life that no longer exists. I don’t even know if I’ll ever get those things back, or if I’ll ever see that room again.
So I dress in the stranger’s clothes, pulling on the soft, expensive fabrics that feel wrong against my skin.
They’re too nice and perfect, like they belong to someone else’s life.
The jeans fit perfectly, hugging my hips and legs like they were made specifically for me.
The sweater is soft, the kind of luxury I’ve only experienced a few times in my life.
Even the underwear is expensive, which is ridiculous because what’s the point of expensive underwear?
Someone measured me. Someone knew my exact sizes. The thought makes me feel violated in a way I can’t quite articulate.
When I’m dressed and my hair is combed out (there’s even a hairdryer and styling products in the bathroom, expensive brands I recognize from department stores, everything I could possibly need), I finally work up the courage to leave the bedroom.
The hallway outside is long and oppressive.
The carpet is thick enough to muffle my footsteps in a beautiful deep burgundy.
The walls are painted a warm cream, but there’s nothing warm about this place.
Expensive art lines the walls (original paintings, not prints).
I recognize a few artists from the gallery openings my mother used to drag me to.
Each piece probably costs six figures. A Monet.
What looks like an early Picasso. A landscape that might be a Cézanne.
Everything screams wealth. Power. Control. And cold taste that has nothing to do with love or appreciation and everything to do with showing off assets.
I try the door closest to mine. Locked.
The heavy brass handle doesn’t budge, no matter how hard I turn it. I move to the next one. Also locked. The third. Locked.
My heart starts to pound. I move faster, trying door after door down the long hallway. Locked. Locked. Locked. Some kind of storage? Guest rooms? I have no idea, but the message is clear. I’m not allowed in these spaces. I’m confined to specific areas. Controlled.
The fourth door finally opens, revealing a library that takes my breath away despite my rising panic.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line three walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that look like they’ve never been read.
The spines are too pristine and perfect.
These aren’t books that have been loved and dog-eared and returned to again and again.
They’re decorations. Status symbols. Probably first editions, sitting here unread.
It’s unfathomable. Books are meant to be loved.
There’s a reading nook by the window with a velvet armchair in deep green and a small mahogany table.
More expensive art on the walls and I’m pretty sure I spot what might be a Rembrandt sketch.
A massive desk in the corner looks antique but is probably worth more than my parents’ house.
Everything is perfectly arranged, perfectly maintained, and perfectly soulless.
It’s beautiful. Impersonal. Like a stage set of what a library should look like rather than an actual space where someone reads.