Chapter Twenty-Five
Mirabel
“The pipe burst happened just this morning, Mr. Coney,” I say into the business phone, my voice tight with forced professionalism.
The copper smell of water damage still hangs in the air from the burst pipe in the west wing bathroom. “I understand it’s short notice, but we need your team here today.”
I pace the length of the kitchen as the plumber makes excuses. It’s supposed to be my day off—the first in weeks—but instead, I’m here handling emergencies while dressed in my carefully selected outfit. The irony doesn’t escape me.
“Yes, Mr. Laurov would appreciate your prompt attention to this matter,” I add, watching his name work its magic. The mention of Arkady transforms the conversation instantly. Funny how that happens.
When I end the call, I set the landline down on the counter and search my pockets for my personal phone. Nothing. My stomach knots. Where is it?
I’ve been looking forward to this day for weeks—a chance to escape this gilded prison, to feel like a normal woman again.
I’d spent an hour this morning getting ready, applying makeup with a careful hand, choosing a dress that hugs my curves just right.
Deep burgundy—a color I’d never have worn before coming here. Before him.
But without my phone, I’m untethered. No way to check on Dad, no way for him to reach me.
Then the memory surfaces—lying in Arkady’s bed last night, my phone on his nightstand as his hands mapped my body, as his mouth claimed mine. I must have left it there when I slipped away, heart pounding with the recklessness of what we’d done.
I press my palms against the cool marble of the kitchen counter, steadying myself against the flood of sensations the memory triggers.
The ghost of his touch lingers on my skin even now, hours later.
The bruise on my collarbone throbs gently beneath my dress—his mark, hidden but present. A reminder.
This isn’t part of the job description, Mirabel.
But I know I’ll go back to his bed if he asks. Maybe even if he doesn’t.
Steeling myself, I head for the east wing.
The mansion feels different in daylight—less intimate, more imposing.
Each step on the polished floor echoes, announcing my presence in spaces where I should move unseen.
The staff are scarce today; half the security team went with Arkady to some meeting, and the remainder patrol the grounds rather than the house.
I reach Arkady’s bedroom door and hesitate, my hand on the ornate handle. This room—the scene of so many crossed boundaries. I shouldn’t enter without him here. But I need my phone, and it’s my day off. Surely this one liberty is allowed.
The door opens silently on well-oiled hinges. His scent hits me immediately—rich and masculine—and immediately I feel my pussy clenching. The bed is made, crisp corners and taut sheets hiding evidence of what happened there. One of the other maids must have been in already.
My phone lies on the nightstand, black screen accusing in its simplicity.
I cross to it quickly, trying not to notice how the morning light softens the room, how the space feels both forbidden and familiar.
I grab my phone and turn to leave when voices in the corridor freeze my blood.
I recognize one of the security guards. But the female voice responding—higher, brittle with emotion—is unfamiliar.
They’re approaching quickly. No time to hide, and being found crouched in his room would be worse than being caught leaving it. I straighten my dress, grip my phone tightly, and move to the door.
As I step into the hallway, I collide with a woman coming the opposite direction. Her shoulder hits mine, the impact sending a jolt through me. I steady myself against the wall, an apology rising to my lips—until I see her face.
Rosanna Tulikova.
I recognize her instantly from that fateful day—the would-be bride, left at the altar. Her expensive perfume overwhelms the narrow space, sweet and cloying, making my head swim. She’s dressed impeccably in a blue couture dress that does nothing to hide her condition.
She’s pregnant. Noticeably pregnant.
Her face is tear-streaked, mascara bleeding at the corners of her eyes, but the disdain that flashes across her features is immediate and razor-sharp.
“Silly staff,” she mutters, swiping angrily at her cheek. Then her eyes widen, taking me in fully. “You! What are you doing here?” Her gaze darts to the door behind me, understanding dawning in her expression. “And why are you coming out of Arkady’s bedroom?”
The accusation in her voice flays me open. What am I doing here? Playing house? Playing mistress? The lines have blurred beyond recognition.
I open my mouth, but no explanation forms. What could I possibly say?
Don’t mind me.
I’m just the housekeeper… who sometimes fucks your ex-fiance.
“Um… I work here,” I say stupidly. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Help me with?” Her voice rises. “Yes. You could help me by getting the fuck out of my house.”
“Your house?” I blurt, then immediately regret it. It seems unfair to antagonize her, considering the circumstances. Still, she doesn’t need to be such a bitch.
“Yes,” she snaps. “The house that would have been mine, if you hadn’t got in the way. Slut.” She spits the word with such venom I practically feel it.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” I say, though part of me knows it’s a lie. She may not be engaged to Arkady anymore, but sleeping with him was a terrible idea.
“Nothing wrong?” she scoffs. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
Heavy footsteps save me from answering. Arkady appears behind Rosanna, his tall frame dominating the narrow corridor. My stomach twists with something that makes me want to press my thighs together.
“Rosanna.” His voice is controlled. His eyes flick to me, then back to her. Whatever he sees in my face doesn’t register in his expression. “Let me see you to your car.” Then he looks directly at me, his face an impassive mask. “Have a good day off, Miss McLeod.”
Miss McLeod. Not Mirabel. Not the name he groaned against my neck last night.
I nod stiffly and brush past them both, feeling Rosanna’s eyes boring into my back as I walk away. My skin burns with humiliation. Of course she would appear now, when things between Arkady and me have become so complicated. A reminder of reality intruding on whatever fantasy I’ve been living.
In the garage, I slide into my car—a sleek silver Audi provided by Arkady to run housekeeping errands—and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.
What a fuckup.
I should never have slept with him. Nothing is ever simple with Arkady Laurov, and I was a fool to think I could separate my body from my emotions. To think I could share his bed without consequences.
I start the car. I should leave. Drive to town, get that coffee with my dad. Pretend this morning never happened.
But as I put the car in reverse, movement in the rearview mirror catches my eye. Arkady, striding toward me across the garage floor, his face dark with purpose.
Shit.
I switch off the engine.
He reaches my window, and I lower it, trying to keep my expression neutral.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.
His eyes search mine, those blue depths revealing nothing. After a long moment, he says simply, “No.”
The raw honesty in that single word steals my breath. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t explain, doesn’t lie. Just no—stripped of pretense.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The question slips out before I can reconsider, born from some strange impulse I don’t fully understand.
His expression shifts, surprise breaking through his careful control.
“I don’t know if I can,” he says finally, the words careful, measured. “I’m not… used to that.”
I hold his gaze, saying nothing.
“Come to my office in ten minutes,” he says, decision made.
Reality reasserts itself. “It’s my day off today.”
“Right.” His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “Then take two days tomorrow. Same salary.”
The offer dangles before me. Time to see my dad, to escape this house and its complications. And yet…
“Um… okay,” I agree before I can talk myself out of it.
He nods once and turns, stalking back toward the house without a backward glance.
I sit motionless, my breath coming too fast. What am I doing? What game are we playing?
My phone buzzes in my hand—three missed calls from Dad. I call him back, but it goes to voicemail.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with a lightness I don’t feel. “Something work-related came up, but I promise I’ll be there tomorrow, and we’ll spend the day together. Love you.”
I end the call, guilt and anticipation warring in my chest. Then I follow Arkady back into the house, certain I’m going to regret this.
Arkady’s office is a study in masculine power—dark woods, leather-bound books, and windows that overlook the estate like a king surveying his domain.
The air smells of leather and his cologne, undercut with something sharper—liquor, maybe.
A crystal tumbler sits on his desk, clear liquid catching the light.
He’s behind his desk when I enter, jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled to expose corded forearms. The tattoos I’ve traced with my fingertips peek from beneath the fabric—intricate designs whose meanings he’s never explained.
“Close the door,” he says without looking up from the document before him.
I obey, the heavy door shutting behind me. The sound feels final, sealing us into this moment.
“Sit.” He gestures to the chair across from him.
I remain standing. A small rebellion, but it’s all I have. “You wanted to talk,” I remind him.
His eyes lift to mine, narrowing slightly. The power dynamics between us shift constantly. Sometimes I don’t know what my role is supposed to be.
“You signed a confidentiality agreement,” he says finally, his accent thickening the words.
“How could I forget?” I respond.
“Good,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “I need to get something off my chest. And you’ll listen. No questions. Just listening.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that part of my job description?” I ask. “To be your therapist, I mean.”
His mouth tightens. “No. How about snooping around in places where you shouldn’t?”
The barb hits its mark. Heat floods my cheeks when I think about him watching me touch myself in the forbidden room.
“Sit,” he says again, and this time I do, perching on the edge of the leather chair.
He takes a drink, the liquor leaving a wet sheen on his lower lip. I watch him swallow, my own throat suddenly dry.
“Rosanna is pregnant.” His voice is flat, emotionless. “If the baby is mine, I’ll take full responsibility. But chances are, it’s not mine.”
His knuckles whiten around the glass. “And the last thing on earth I want is to have a kid. No way. Absolutely no way I want kids.”
The vehemence in his voice startles me. There’s a story there, something dark and painful that he’s not sharing. His walls are up, higher than ever.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, breaking his rule. “And why are you so adamant about not having kids?”
His face darkens, shadows gathering in the hollows of his cheeks. “I said no questions,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous register that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“You can’t just drop that on me and expect me not to say anything,” I reply.
“I just did.” He stands abruptly, straightening papers on his desk. “I’m done.”
“That’s it?” I feel a frown form. “You called me in here just to tell me you don’t want kids?”
“Yes,” he says, infuriating me. “You can go now.”
“Go where?” I ask.
“Back to work. Since you’re taking your leave tomorrow, today is a normal working day for you. Is there anything you need to report?”
The dismissal stings. One moment of openness, then the shutters slam closed. I stand too, professional mask sliding back into place.
“Yes, one of the pipes in the west wing burst this morning.” I manage to keep my voice cool and steady. “I contacted the plumber. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Good.” He’s looking at something on his desk as he says it. When I hesitate for a moment, he looks back up at me. “You can go,” he says again.
The cold formality cuts deeper than it should. I stand, giving him an exaggerated curtsy. “Yes, sir.”
As I turn to leave, I catch his expression—something raw and unguarded flashing across his features. But it’s gone before I can decipher it, and the door closes between us with a quiet click.