Chapter Eleven
In which this day is going to suck. But at least there’s coffee.
Iris…
I wake up the next morning marinating in dread.
Unlocking my phone - which Andrey had graciously returned yesterday - I flinch. There are fifty-eight texts from Rose, twenty-five phone calls and three attempts to FaceTime me.
Rose: What I'm hearing can't be right. Call me.
Rose: Oh my god, are you okay? Call me.
Rose: Where the fuck are you? I'm freaking out! Why aren't you calling me back?
I'm going to have to lie to her. I didn't even lie to her about thinking Jeremy was an asshole. I just didn't say anything. This is going to be my first, flat-out active lie to my Rose. I already feel like garbage.
Stumbling downstairs in my tank top and sweats, I head into the kitchen.
It has extraordinarily high ceilings like all the rooms on the first floor, with cream-colored walls and charcoal gray cabinets.
There's an enormous slab of granite, ragged on the edges that serves as the island.
It is designed to be a chef's kitchen with all the requisite expensive gear, though I don't know if Andrey uses it.
He's the type to just have a designer put it together.
I wonder if he would let me put a rack of little, potted herb plants along one of the windows.
They're gigantic enough that I could plant a palm tree there and he would probably never notice.
I'm deeply relieved to see that there is already a full pot of coffee waiting because I'm not sure I would know how to turn on his coffee maker, much less operate it.
Pouring myself a cup, I let out a relieved groan as I breathe in the promising scent, as I look for sugar or cream.
I'm sure that bastard drinks coffee as black as his heart.
"Oh, good. You're awake."
Screaming, I drop the mug and it shatters across the granite countertop.
Melina, my favorite Morozov guard, stands at the far end of the counter with an amused smile.
"I didn't expect that kind of welcome," she says.
Melina is short and quick, sly like a fox with dark auburn hair cut into a stylish bob.
She's spectacular with guns and can take a shot most snipers would turn down.
I let out another scream, running toward her with my arms out. I know she'd rather take a bullet than a hug, but I'm hugging her anyway. She endures me for a minute, gingerly patting my back once before she steps away. "I'm happy to see you too, Mrs. Morozova."
"Don't you dare call me that!" I moan. "Please."
"Well, it is a bit to get used to," she allows, deftly cleaning up the broken mug before I can and pouring me another.
"I believe your new husband ordered groceries in.
Let's see if that includes sugar and cream.
" Sure enough, there is a brand of stupidly expensive cream in the fridge and delicate sugar cubes in a crystal dish, because why not. I put four of them in my coffee.
"Oh, that is so much better," I sigh happily. "Thank you."
She pours herself a cup and leans against the counter, watching me. "I believe this is the part where you say, 'Melina, what are you doing here?'" she prompts.
"Honestly?" I admit, rooting through the cabinets, looking for Tylenol, "I really don't care why because I'm so damn glad to see you but sure, what are you doing here?"
"I am your new, personal bodyguard," she says, folding her arms and smiling a bit smugly. "I will be in charge of your security team. I intend to terrorize them. You will never be safer."
Thinking of poor Vitali, I cringe. "Vitali didn't get in trouble because I was an irresponsible asshole, did he?"
"No one is happy with him," she admits. "How did he not catch you sneaking out like that? It was painfully transparent."
"Well, he trusted me." I endure a well-deserved stab of guilt. "I'm the one who sucks in this scenario."
"I don't trust you in the slightest," Melina says cheerfully. "So, there shouldn't be any issue with keeping you out of jail for receiving stolen property."
"You're so good to me," I say dryly.
"I don't get paid enough to be comforting."
"That's fair." I change the subject, I'll be living with the shame of that arrest for years to come, I'm sure. "I need to go see Rose first thing. We haven't talked since all of this…" I gesture vaguely, "...happened."
"Understood," Melina nods, murmuring something into her earpiece.
I shower and change, putting on some makeup in an attempt to look less tragic.
As we wait for the elevator, I stare at my wedding bouquet, still pristine in that crystal vase.
The whole night was such a blur that I don't remember what happened to it after Andrey put this ring on my finger.
Somehow, he remembered though, and brought it home and put it in water for me.
Was it a thoughtful move on his part? Or, sort of a waste not, want thing?
Maybe a subtle reminder that I'm his. I don't know him well enough to guess.
Melina wasn't joking about a full security team.
The new car Andrey assigned for me - a charcoal grey Mercedes AMG G-Falcon - comes with a driver, a stoic man with sunglasses and a suit as dark as his skin.
Another guy who is approximately the size and shape of a California redwood is standing next to the open door.
Melina keeps checking around us, even though there are only two other cars, both Andrey's, parked on this level.
"I have a perfectly good Range Rover," I point out. "Armored up and everything."
"It's currently in the ungentle hands of the Long Island P.D. as an abandoned vehicle," Melina says dryly.
"Oh." That flattens me. "I loved that car.
It sounds like I'm not getting it back." I try to remember what was in the car when they took it.
"Damnit! My MP3 player was in there! It's vintage!
" Somehow, even worse than losing my car is knowing those assholes are listening to my carefully curated playlist right now.
It's stupid, I know. Just one more piece of my old life that's gone.
"Mrs. Morozova, these gentlemen are on your team. Your driver, Thomas." He raises one hand in greeting. "And this-" she points to the Redwood, is Avvakir."
"Ah-var-kier?" I attempt.
"No ma'am," he rumbles in, hilariously, a southern accent even though it's clear he's a product of the Motherland, "Avvah-kur."
"Avvuk-"
"Call me Av, please," he interrupts me politely. "It's easier."
"Thank you," I say gratefully.
"Are we going to your old apartment?" Melina asks.
I flinch at the word 'old,' as in a place where I don't belong anymore, but I nod.