Chapter 17 – Eleanor #2
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a psychological evaluation.”
“In this family, it’s both.”
Zara was typing rapidly on her phone. “I’m sending photos to the photographer. If we can get some shots of you in this dress before the show, we can use them for the promotional materials.”
“Photos?”
“Eleanor, you’re news now. Whether you like it or not, people are fascinated by your story. The socialite who married into the Bratva, survived an assassination attempt, and is launching a fashion line anyway. It’s the kind of narrative that sells magazines and fills venues.”
I looked at myself in the mirror again, trying to see what they saw. The woman looking back at me was still recognizably me, but there was something different in her eyes. Something harder, more resolved.
“When did I become news?” I asked.
“The moment you married Maxim,” Anya said bluntly. “His world doesn’t allow for privacy. Everything is public, everything is political, and everything is a statement.”
“What kind of statement am I making?”
“That depends on how you want to play this. You can be the victim, the innocent bystander who got caught up in something bigger than herself. Or you can be the woman who looked at that world and decided to make it hers.”
The choice, when she put it like that, seemed obvious.
“I want to be the woman who makes it hers.”
“Good. Because that’s the only version of this story that ends with you still breathing.”
Anya’s phone rang, and she glanced at the screen with an expression that immediately shifted from business to personal. “It’s Maxim. Give me a second.”
She stepped into the hallway, but I could still hear her side of the conversation, a mix of English and Russian that sounded like she was giving a detailed operational report.
“Your sister-in-law is intense,” Zara observed.
“She’s Maxim’s sister. Intense is probably a family trait.”
“Speaking of Maxim, how are things with you two? Last time we talked, you were convinced he was going to keep you locked in a basement forever.”
I thought about this morning, about waking up in his arms with the taste of promises still on my lips. About the way he’d looked at me when I’d called him mine, covered in blood and beautiful in his violence.
“Things have gotten complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“Complicated, like I think I might actually be falling in love with him.”
Zara nearly dropped her phone. “Eleanor Beaumont Voronov, did you just admit to falling in love with your kidnapper husband?”
“ Former kidnapper husband. Current protective, possessive, surprisingly tender husband who kills people who threaten me.”
“Jesus Christ, your life has gotten weird.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But you’re happy? Like, actually happy, not just Stockholm syndrome happy?”
I considered the question seriously. Was I happy?
The woman I’d been six months ago would have said no, would have insisted that happiness couldn’t coexist with the constant threat of violence, with the knowledge that my husband’s business involved activities that were probably illegal and definitely dangerous.
But the woman I was now, the woman wearing a dress designed to make me look lethal….
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I actually am.”
“Good. Because if he hurt you, I’d have to kill him, and I’m pretty sure he could snap me like a twig.”
“He’d never hurt me. Not physically.”
“What about emotionally?”
“That’s more complicated.” I thought about the distance he’d maintained after our wedding, the way he’d pulled back every time I’d tried to get closer. “He’s scared.”
“Maxim Voronov is scared of something?”
“He’s scared of becoming another man I’ll eventually hate.”
“Are you going to hate him?”
“No. But I don’t think he believes that yet.”
Anya returned from her phone call, her expression business-like but with an undertone of something that might have been amusement.
“Maxim wants to know if you’re planning to leave the building today.”
“Why?”
“Because if you are, he needs to coordinate additional security. Apparently, there have been some developments in the investigation into the shooting.”
Something cold settled in my stomach. “What kind of developments?”
“The kind that suggest the threat level hasn’t decreased.” She studied my face carefully. “He also wants to know if you’re willing to accept a more restrictive security protocol for the next few days.”
“Define restrictive.”
“Armed escorts for any movement outside the building. Background checks for anyone who wants to get within fifty feet of you. Bulletproof glass in all the cars.”
I felt the walls of my new world pressing in from all sides, the weight of constant vigilance and perpetual threat.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that you’re not the kind of woman who hides from a fight, but you’re also not the kind of woman who’s stupid about it. So you’ll accept reasonable security measures as long as they don’t interfere with your ability to run your business.”
“And he accepted that?”
“He didn’t have a choice. I may have mentioned that if he tries to lock you away, you’ll probably do something reckless just to prove a point.”
“You know me too well.”
“I know him too well. And I know that the more he tries to control the situation, the more likely you are to rebel against it. So, I negotiated a compromise.”
“Which is?”
“Enhanced security that doesn’t look like enhanced security.
Your guards will be dressed like assistants and photographers.
The bulletproof glass is tinted so no one can tell the difference.
And you get to maintain the illusion of normal life while actually being protected by people who could probably take down a small army. ”
It was a smart solution, one that acknowledged both my need for independence and Maxim’s need to keep me breathing. I was starting to understand why Anya was so good at managing complex situations.
“There’s one more thing,” she said, her tone shifting slightly.
“What?”
“Maxim asked me to tell you that he loves you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, unexpected and overwhelming and absolutely perfect in their timing.
“He said that?”
“He said he should have said it last night and again this morning, and he’s planning to say it tonight when he gets home. But in case something happens or he doesn’t make it home, he wanted to make sure you knew.”
“In case something happens?”
“Eleanor.” Anya’s voice was gentle but firm. “We’re at war now. Not just with whoever tried to kill you, but with everyone who sees your survival as a challenge to their power. Every day Maxim leaves the house, there’s a chance he might not come back.”
“That’s how you live? With that constant fear?”
“That’s how we all live. That’s the price of belonging to this family.”
I thought about Maxim, somewhere in the city, dealing with whatever developments had emerged from yesterday’s investigation. Making decisions that could determine whether I lived or died, whether our marriage was a love story or a tragedy.
“I love him too,” I said.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re here, working on your show instead of hiding in a safe house somewhere. Because you’re wearing that dress like armor instead of a costume. Because you looked at our world and decided to make it yours instead of running away from it.”
She was right. Every choice I’d made since Maxim had taken me from my office, every moment I’d chosen to fight instead of surrender, had been leading to this realization.
“Anya?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For all of this.” I gestured at the organized chaos of my office, the evidence of her dedication to something that wasn’t even her dream. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”
“Yes, I did. Because you make my brother happy in a way I haven’t seen since our parents died. And because you’re the kind of woman who deserves to have her dreams come true, even when those dreams exist in the middle of a war zone.”
Despite her reassurances, I couldn’t push away the twinge of worry that sprouted in my stomach. “What if the show is a disaster? What if nobody comes, or the clothes fall apart, or someone tries to shoot up the venue?”
Anya’s expression softened, and she offered me a small smile. “Then we’ll deal with it. Together. That’s what family does.”
Family. The word still felt strange in my mouth, still carried weight I wasn’t used to. But standing there, surrounded by the evidence of Anya’s faith in me, with Zara’s fierce loyalty and Maxim’s love protecting me from all sides, I was starting to understand what it actually meant.
It meant having people who would fight for your dreams as hard as they fought for your life.
The fashion show was going to be perfect.
And if anyone tried to stop it, they were going to learn exactly what kind of woman Eleanor Voronov really was .