Chapter 11 Naomi
NAOMI
I wake up alone.
The realization hits me like cold water, jarring me from the hazy warmth of sleep into stark reality.
My fingers reach across the expanse of the bed, searching for Daniil, but find only empty space and sheets that have already begun to cool.
The pillow beside me still holds the faint impression of his head, and when I bury my face in the fabric, I breathe in the lingering scent of his cologne.
The sheets beneath me are soft and rumpled, still warm with the memory of last night.
Every nerve ending in my body seems to pulse with awareness, my skin tingling with the ghost of his touch.
The soreness between my thighs is proof of how thoroughly he claimed me, and how completely I surrendered to him.
This isn't the guest room with its neutral colors and impersonal furniture.
This is his room. Daniil's bed. His sanctuary.
And for one night, one perfect, consuming night, I wasn't just a part of the act. I was his.
He left without a word, slipping away while I was still lost in dreams. The absence of explanation stings more than I want to admit.
I sit up slowly, pulling the sheet with me, trying to hold on to the illusion of something real and lasting.
But it slips through my fingers like sand, leaving me grasping at nothing.
I rise from the bed on unsteady legs and pad across the hallway to the guest bedroom.
Inside the wardrobe, I find several items hung carefully.
Dresses, blouses, even a few pairs of designer jeans.
Everything is in my exact size, which shouldn't surprise me anymore.
Daniil is nothing if not thorough in his preparations.
I choose a soft ivory cotton dress, one of the few pieces that doesn't feel like a costume designed to transform me into someone else.
The fabric is buttery soft against my skin, hugging my waist before falling gently to my knees.
It's delicate and feminine, a whisper against my body that reminds me of who I was before I became Mrs. Zorin.
Before I became a pawn in a game I'm only beginning to understand.
The mirror in the corner of the closet reflects a mark on my collarbone, a small bruise where he sucked and bit at my skin, marking me as his. I trace it with my fingertip, remembering the heat of his mouth and the possessive way he whispered my name.
I find my phone on the nightstand, the screen showing several missed notifications.
But there's only one person I want to talk to right now.
One voice that still feels like solid ground in a world that keeps tilting beneath my feet.
I dial Charlotte's number, sinking back onto the edge of the bed as it rings.
“Morning, lover girl,” Charlotte answers after two rings, her voice bright and teasing but tinged with underlying curiosity. I can picture her in our tiny apartment, probably still in her pajamas, coffee mug in hand. “You alive? Still married? Still in one piece?”
Her casual tone almost makes me smile, but the emotional fallout from last night wraps around my chest, tight and unrelenting. “I need to tell you something,” I manage. “And I need you not to interrupt until I finish.”
The change in her tone is immediate. “Oof. That serious? Okay, I'm sitting down. Spill.”
So, I do. I tell her everything, the words tumbling out in a rush like water through a broken dam.
About the gala and how Daniil transformed me into someone I didn't recognize, draping me in his mother's diamonds like I was a treasured possession.
About the way the entire room seemed to defer to him with a mix of respect and fear that instantly raised red flags.
About Viktor's presence and how the temperature in the ballroom seemed to drop ten degrees the moment he came near us.
I describe the tension between the cousins thick enough to cut with a knife.
And the way Viktor's eyes lingered on me with a hunger that made me feel naked.
The veiled threats hidden behind polite conversation, the implications that I had chosen poorly in my husband.
And then the way Daniil's control finally snapped.
And how he practically dragged me from the ballroom before the evening could explode into violence.
“Char, I've never seen anything like it,” I whisper into the phone, my free hand twisted in the sheet. “The way people looked at him, the fear in their eyes. This isn't just some business arrangement. This is more dangerous than I imagined.”
I tell her about the car ride home, suffocating with unspoken words and simmering fury.
About how Daniil's silence felt more threatening than any shout could have been.
And then, my voice dropping even lower, I tell her about what happened when we got home.
About his mouth on mine, desperate and consuming.
About the way the anger between us burned into something that felt like falling and flying at the same time.
I leave out the most intimate details, but Charlotte hears it anyway in the breathless quality of my voice and the pauses between words. She always does.
“He was different last night,” I continue, my thumb tracing the edge of the sheet. “Not the calculating man I agree to fake marry. He was almost desperate. Like he needed me in a way that went beyond our arrangement.”
There's silence on the other end of the line. I know Charlotte is processing everything I've told her, filtering it against her protective instincts and her natural suspicion of men who seem too good to be true.
“Well,” Charlotte finally responds as she blows out a long breath. “That definitely escalated quickly. Jesus, Nae.”
I can almost see her pacing around our tiny apartment in her fuzzy socks, the way she always does when she's thinking hard about something. The mental image makes homesickness twist in my stomach.
“Are you okay?” she asks, genuinely concerned. “I mean, really okay? Not just physically, but emotionally? Because this is heavy stuff, and I know you. You don't do casual.”
My fingers tighten as I chew on my bottom lip. “I don't know,” I admit. “I feel like I'm drowning, Char. Like every time I think I understand what's happening, the rules change again.”
“Do you think it meant something? What happened between you two?”
That’s the question I've been avoiding since I woke up alone. “It felt like it did,” I confess, my voice breaking slightly. “It felt like everything. But then I woke up in his bed and he was gone, just vanished like it never happened. No note, nothing.”
Charlotte exhales sharply, and I know that sound.
It's her “I'm about to give you advice you don't want to hear” sound.
“Nae, honey, you need to be careful. Really careful.
Men like that don't play by the same rules as the rest of us.
They're masters of manipulation, and making people feel things that serve their purposes.
Whatever that was between you two last night, it might have felt real to you, but that doesn't mean it was real on his end.”
The words strike a nerve, even though I know she's only trying to protect me. “You think he's just using me.”
“I think he's a dangerous man who needs something from you, and he's smart enough to know that the best way to ensure your cooperation is to make you feel like you mean something to him. That doesn't mean his feelings aren't real, but it doesn't mean they are, either.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper, the sharp pain grounding me.
“I know you're right. I know I should be more careful and more guarded.
But Charlotte, when he looks at me, when he touches me, it doesn't feel like manipulation.
It feels like he's seeing something in me that no one else ever has.”
“That's exactly what makes it so dangerous,” she replies gently. “Promise me you won't lose yourself in this. Promise me, you'll remember who you were before this arrangement. Because that woman was pretty amazing, and she deserves better than being someone's convenient solution.”
The words lodge in my throat like broken glass. “Too late,” I whisper, and even I can hear the defeat in my voice.
She hears it too, but doesn't push, which I'm grateful for.
We talk for a few more minutes about mundane things; her latest client drama, the weird smell coming from our upstairs neighbor's apartment, anything to maintain the illusion of normalcy.
When we finally hang up, I promise to call again later, though I'm not sure when later will be or what state I'll be in when it comes.
The silence of the house settles around me again. I slide the phone back onto the nightstand and stand, smoothing down the skirt of my dress. I can't hide in this room forever, no matter how much I want to pull the covers over my head and pretend none of this is happening.
I wander through the estate, my footsteps echoing softly on the marble floor.
The dress sways gently around my legs as I walk, the fabric a comfort against my skin.
I pass tall windows that look out over manicured hedges and gardens that must cost a small fortune to maintain.
The morning light streams through the glass, covering everything in a golden glow that should be beautiful but instead feels artificial, like a movie set designed to impress rather than comfort.
The hallways are filled with oil paintings in heavy golden frames, portraits of stern-faced men and elegant women who must be Daniil's ancestors.
Their eyes seem to follow me as I pass, judging this American interloper who dares to walk their halls.
Fresh floral arrangements sit on antique tables, the blooms so perfect they look fake, though I know they're probably replaced daily by the staff.