Chapter 11 - Darya
Air snags in my throat the instant my eyes fly open.
Oh, God. There’s so much red.
I wake up confused and sore and parched—and my carafe of water is not where it should be. I hoisted myself upright with fistfuls of cool, crisp white sheets in place of the deep emerald ones my housekeeper, Vera, most recently chose. My head whirls, and black spots cascade before my eyes.
Never have I ever awoken in a bed and not known where I am.
After today, I can’t say that anymore. I have to say I’m not a fan of this feeling—the panic that balloons in my chest, obstructing common sense, is inconvenient at best. It takes a minute to come back to myself.
The wedding band on my finger assists, a gleaming anchor to reality.
I’m wearing a wedding band.
Because I am married now. I’m married to Anton Zakharov.
“Who you fucked last night,” I add to myself, able to forgive myself the crudeness in light of recent events. “Without so much as a condom.”
The reminder is enough to make me leap out from under the covers like I’ve been bitten. Furiously, my head whips back and forth, wild eyes searching for my new husband.
Where bewilderment dissipates, stinging, slicing anger takes its place. My eyes zero in on the smooth, unbothered sheets on the left side of the bed. It’s clear to see that not even the duvet was pulled back on that side. It’s undisturbed. The same can’t be said for me.
But hey, looks like I got the bedroom to myself, after all.
I wait for relief about it. Relief that, for some inexplicable reason, never comes.
Maybe it’s because my body is that exhausted, bones heavy and muscles sore from being contorted and stretched to a dance between my desires and a man’s whims. The theory has more and more merit, as the night comes back to me—playing in my head like a film reel, that cut off, the quality blurring, around the time he deposited my body in the bathtub.
Right before he walked away from me, his face turned away. Like he couldn’t stand the sight of me.
Like he was horrified he’d let himself fuck me.
The memory alone is enough to make the back of my neck burn from mortification.
I feel sick. Sick to my stupid stomach, over the way I’d let him get to me this much.
I’d let him get so far under my skin in the haze of a feverish—fine, mind-blowing, but not life-changing—sexual encounter that I’d ended the night crying in a bathtub, more alone than I’ve ever been. Like I’m a slave to oxytocin.
Hell no. That’s not who I am.
I’m not some pathetic woman who’s been sold off like cattle, searching for a bout of lust for romantic subtext.
This may be a political marriage, but it’s still one I chose of my own volition, despite having been offered the option to tap out even, and more than once at that.
Of course, despite my taunting him last night about my parameters for sharing my bed with a man, I’d considered the possibility of sharing his.
I’m no simpleton. He is, however, a man.
And I am a beautiful woman. I may not have allowed myself to consider the possibility of a sexual tryst between us, but neither am I entirely surprised that one would occur.
That said, sex isn’t without consequence.
Since I doubt someone’s about to go out and grab me a Plan B pill after my wedding night, I’ll have to settle for praying.
Though I suppose a child would secure the damn alliance plenty.
Anton may have believed he had me cornered with his manipulative logic, but he never factored in that my brothers love me more than they ever could the Bratva—that my sanity, my life, my happiness matters more, forever.
In hindsight, it’s not surprising that he’d believe otherwise so easily.
The man can’t even elicit his own brother’s loyalty—half-brother or not, they were still raised together, weren’t they?
—So what does he possibly know about love?
It would be foolish to be bothered by his dismissal.
There is no point in being stung by his absence.
No matter what, I’m not about to be a victim of his whims.
I’m hell and high water, waiting in his bed.
He’s the one who should sleep with one eye open.
It isn’t like before, now. I’m not bound by etiquette, respecting my upbringing and an alliance both parties were coerced into.
In adopting the Zakharov name, I’ve become a weapon, adorned with my own family’s sigil.
It isn’t a frivolous party planner whose sister happens to be married to his half-brother.
I am his wife, as he’d reminded me with his head between my legs last night.
He doesn’t get to walk away from me.
At least not without consequences. Not anymore.
Clearly, my husband is under the illusion that our dynamic was one where my hands are tied—in the metaphorical sense, mind you—and he has the upper hand.
He’s in for a rude awakening.
Last night, alone and unraveling, I’d sat in bathwater until it had gone cold.
By the time my tears had dried, my mind had been full of ideas.
Granted, the first of them may not have been the most sophisticated—though there’s still some merit to slowly weakening him with poison, day by day, until he awoke one morning, just in time for me to plunge a dagger into his cold, black heart—but they’d picked up in quality thereafter.
No contest, that’s who I’d rather be: the one who makes plans and executes them, clear-headed all the way through.
A solution-oriented person. An asset. The woman I’ve always been.
Who’ll get out of bed, get dressed, have her coffee with a side of some fruit and yogurt, then dive headfirst into her day.
I won’t allow it to change just because it’s a different bed I’m crawling out of, and getting dressed now includes taming sex-wrecked curls I must re-wet and set with copious amounts of hair mousse.
Does it truly matter if it’s a Zakharov servant I’m summoning for coffee and breakfast? Not to me. Not to the big picture.
I’ve got this.
Whatever a piece of paper deems, there is Yuri blood in my veins.
And Anton Zakharov is about to find out just what that means for his peace of mind.
***
The team at the atelier itself comprises of four people—my primary assistant and studio manager, Filip; Gloriana, who acts as my second pair of hands with conservation and restoration, though she started as my trainee; my technical analyst, Hanya, without whom I’d struggle to move on a piece without knowledge of what I’m working with, chemically and historically; and sweet Javier, my archivist, who specializes in documentation and record-keeping—and each of them is exceptionally adept, and well-compensated for their skills as much as their discretion.
While it’s indisputably true that it’s not entirely ethical to source my team for this, I recognize the satisfaction that blooms within me when Filip shows up at the Zakharov manor halfway through the morning.
With a fleet following after him, laden with fabric swatches, paint samples, and catalogs of antiques, in quantities that have Anton’s security team squirming with anxiety.
It’s delicious. Short-lived, however.
“What on earth is the meaning of this?!” A shriek precedes a body storming out to the foyer. Unfortunately, it’s only my new mother-in-law. She announces herself, arms crossed across her chest.
What a pity that it isn’t Anton.
The act of batting my lashes while taking a hot poker to his restraint is exactly what the doctor ordered for me today.
I’m not nearly as cheered up confronting Galina Zakharov. This woman, whom I’ve crossed paths with a handful of times at events and, of course, the wedding yesterday, has seemed dignified and detached.
As becomes swiftly clear to me, that’s one hell of a front. At least if the way several members of staff—including the ones with guns in their holsters—recoil at the way her eyes bulge with fury is anything to go by.
“Good morning,” I greet politely.
“I asked a question.” Her mouth twists in a sneer. It’s the only part of her face that moves, not cosmetically plumped and frozen in place.
“I assumed it was rhetorical, Galina.”
My mistake. I see that her eyelids move fine as well, despite what appears to have been a severe brow-lift procedure, because they narrow dangerously at me. “Yes. Your presumption appears to be the problem at hand.”
“A problem?” I ask. “I wasn’t aware you and I had a problem, Galina.”
“Now you are,” she snaps. “What do you think you’re doing with—” She gestures broadly around the paraphernalia. “—all of this?”
I stare at her. “I thought it was self-explanatory. I’m giving this place a facelift,” I say, choosing words pointedly.
She can blame her son for my inability to suffer any fools this morning. It doesn’t help her case that she has his mouth—and the same infuriating expression when it twists, like she’s bitten into a lemon.
I look away. My gaze returns to Filip, who’s doing a splendid job of pretending like he isn’t hearing any part of this exchange.
He may as well be birdwatching. It’s as much his grounded disposition as it is years of working with me.
He doesn’t miss a single beat before snapping to attention, ever. Now is no exception.
“Just follow me. The east wing, first.” That’s where my dear husband’s study is, I’ve discovered, after some recon. “You can lay everything out in—” I turn to Galina, smiling coolly. “What’s the largest room on the ground floor?”
Her eyes harden the same way her son’s do. “The drawing room,” she answers past a jaw locked with overt fury. I can appreciate that, even through her absolute disdain for me, this woman answers politely. Not everyone can manage that.
Besides, it’s just smart to not make another enemy in this place.
I decide to extend an olive branch. “Would you like to come with? I’m sure I can use some input.”
That’s a lie. I’ve never in my life, not even as a toddler, gotten dressed and required assistance with aesthetics. I know my mind; I always have. But swallowing pride is a core component of extending an olive branch.
Not that she takes it.
Stiff with indignation, Galina says, “You can’t just do whatever you’d like to this place. There is history here. This manor has looked this way for sixty years. You—”
“Yes. I can tell.”
Sharply, her head cants. “You have been in this house for less than twenty-four hours.”
“True,” I chirp.
“Yet you believe it entitles you to—”
“I believe,” I intercept, unflinching, “that your son has brought me into this house. His house, yes? That’s how the system works. I am the new Mrs. Zakharov. That entitles me to run this household. Therefore, it is under my purview to redecorate as I see fit.”
Anything else you’d like, you can let anyone know. It’ll be arranged for you, Anton said to me last night.
“Your son said it’s fine,” I translate for Galina.
I’ve got her in a spot, and we both know it. The silence that fills the space between her and me is thick with scorn, as is her right. But I’ve learned, over the years, that it’s a power move in itself not to fight silence. It can be a real tool.
It works. I see it as her mouth presses into a hard line, and she takes a beat to rein in her umbrage.
Despite the rigidity that lingers in the set of her shoulders, Galina releases a breath.
It’s with control and grace that she points at the nearest swatch of fabric—a punchy, garish purple velvet—and says, “Over my dead body. That’s hideous. ”
Despite myself, I laugh. “No, it isn’t.” Yes, it is. “It’s for Anton’s study.”
“The study is paneled,” she argues, blinking at me like I’m stupid.
“In a shit-colored shade of brown. Picture the velvet on a chaise. I’m not taking away the paneling.”
“That can be stripped and re-stained, dear. It doesn’t need to be countered with fabric that belongs in a seedy establishment.
” Galina waves me off with a skeletal hand.
It’s the only part of her, to my eye, that actually tells her age.
Whoever’s responsible for her cosmetic work has been incredibly thorough; I’ll give her that.
She looks like the most recent iteration of Demi Moore. “This is not a strip club.”
I’ll admit, she startles another laugh out of me, inspiring delighted shock this time. This development is one I did not see coming. “Tell me honestly, Galina, when’s the last time you were at a strip club?”
“No comment” is her clipped response.
But I swear, I see her eyes sparkle with humor. I can’t be sure, since she falls into step beside me. A horde of men follows after us, toting the equipage.
“Fair enough,” I allow. “I’ll be more conservative with redecorating the more communal areas. And I’m serious about your input. You’re too well-dressed for this to be your taste, either. It looks like a hotel from the 1940s. In the bad way.”
She’s eyeing me suspiciously; I can tell. One doesn’t grow up a Yuri and not learn how to effortlessly spot someone’s focus on them. Attention, in this world, has always come with repercussions. Idly, I wonder how much Galina understands about it.
From what I myself understand about her history, hers was a political marriage as well.
A path to securing ties between the Zakharovs and Karpovs, all the way in St. Petersburg.
Whether that was before or after, or during, my father-in-law’s affair with Viktor’s late mother, Milena, I don’t know.
I’d never be so rude as to ask Galina outright.
But I feel bad for her. I can’t deny that. It’s why I invite, softly, “You can say what you’re thinking. I’m pretty hard to offend.”
That invitation, apparently, is all she needs. Stepping ahead of me into the drawing room, she candidly proclaims, “You’re doing this to get a rise out of my son.”
Galina glides toward a dated-looking couch and sinks imperiously into it. Her words aren’t a question. That’s no accident. There’s a challenge in her eyes that reminds me—again, disturbingly—of her son. It takes effort not to let it poison her for me.
I understand that she’s testing me. Still, I find I can’t decide whether I care or not about passing that test.
Leaning on the information I have about her and the impression I’ve gleaned now, I rely on my intuition. “Yes,” I tell her the unembellished truth. Then ask, “Are you going to try to stop me?”