Chapter Seventeen
In which Andrey is a progressive bastard.
Iris…
"I'm going to throw up."
"No, you're not." Andrey is reviewing a legal file, rapidly thumbing through the paperwork.
There is a lot more actual paper involved in the legal world than I would have thought, he always has a stack of them on the desk in his study.
At least from the occasional glimpse I'm allowed into his forbidden realm. "You're just nervous."
"You have a lot more faith in me than you should." This comes out in more of a whine that I wanted it to.
His glittering black gaze is on me, and he sets the file aside. "Come here." He pats his knee.
Andrey Morozov wants me to sit on his lap? Like a normal guy? Is he feverish?
Ever since we left the judge's office that night with a ring weighing my hand down, Andrey hasn't touched me.
Not like that anyway, maybe a hand on the small of my back or to help me out of the car.
Which was fine with me because I would've bit his hand off if he tried to put it anywhere else on my body, but still, this is startling.
He's sitting on the long suede couch in the living room, looking disgustingly perfect in his dark gray suit and a blue tie. Andrey is gorgeous in the way a frozen pond is, with that perfect, inviting sheen and you have to skate on it- right up to the point the ice cracks beneath your feet.
There will be no sitting on his lap. I walk over as slowly as I can without looking like I'm afraid of him, because fuck that.
For one second, it looks like my ass is just about to settle on his knee before I swing gracefully and sit next to him, hands clasped and legs crossed, just the way Jessica taught me.
His eyes flicker down my perfect posture and back up to my face, and he gives me a smile.
Not a big one, but one that clearly says, touché.
"Tell me what you're worried about." He put his arm on the back of the couch behind me, making me feel enclosed.
"Wow, well… First, that I will fuck up the Supreme Court nomination that you've been building up to for ten years?" I whine.
He dismisses that instantly. "It's a given. If I had any doubt, I would lock you in our bedroom."
"Your bedroom," I correct. All my stuff might be in there, but I spent the night in the guest bedroom again. The significance of his gigantic bed - the size of a stretch limo - was too much to deal with.
Stroking his chin, he examines me for a long moment, like he's digging into my brain and sorting through the chaos there. "Here's what I know about you, darling. You are far more intelligent than you like to reveal. I read through your professor's notes in last year's marketing class."
"Dr. Gillespie? How did you get a hold of- never mind," I sigh.
"He wrote a paper discussing the P.R. crisis at Westbrook Foods.
He called in six of his graduate students and you, a sophomore, to brainstorm.
Westbrook needed a rescue campaign. Of all the suggestions that came out of the discussions, he selected yours.
'The Signs of Strength,' correct? Yours was the campaign they went with and it pulled them out of that toxic pile of shit that the owner's son shoved them into. "
"The father was too permissive," I say. "The son though, he was a complete asshole. He wanted to tank his dad's business. It was a good company with strong roots. They just needed a quick rebranding to keep their credibility."
"You see? Westbrook is valued at over two billion dollars and you restored its reputation. As a sophomore."
"I didn't implement the campaign. I just designed it," I say uncomfortably.
"Take the credit you deserve." Andrey's watching me intently, a slight smile still on his face. "No one else will give it to you, particularly if you're a woman."
Who is this progressive bastard? And where was he when he dragged me into the judge's chambers to get married?
"This interview today is important," he acknowledges. "It's the N.Y. Bar Association's most consequential media piece of the year. I'll lead the discussion. You already know the hardball questions they'll throw at you. I expect you to be utterly compelling."
My jaw drops and I know I look like a simpleton. Is there an entirely new Andrey inhabiting his body? "You're being supportive?"
"I'm being honest," he corrects me. "I don't have time to waste, soothing people's feelings, their fragile egos. Nor my wife's insecurities, because she shouldn't have any."
"Not all of us can be you, Andrey." I sigh, shaking my head. "And once this interview airs, it's going to mean that -"
"It will mean what?" he frowns.
I glance away, avoiding eye contact.
"Ah. You think that if you conduct this interview, sitting here as my wife, you'll have permanently established that we are married," he says slowly. "That there's no getting out of this. That it is permanent."
I stare at him, shocked, sliding my hands under my thighs so he can't see how sweaty they are. He puts his forefinger under my chin, lifting it, forcing me to look at him.
"From the moment you said 'I do,' you were mine.
" There's a slightly hoarse tinge to his tone.
"Bratva marriages are for life, but you know that.
However, look at my brother's and cousins' marriages, better yet, look at our parents' unions.
You must admit those marriages have all turned out for the best. They're all happy. Are they not?"
"Yes," I whisper. "But you're… different."
Surprisingly, he doesn't look offended. "You're correct, though I do think that Roman's unparalleled skill with torture really eclipses anything that's considered disturbing about me.
Everything I said to Violet and Roman that night about you, I meant.
I will always treat you well, I want you to have what makes you happy- in the parameters of our marriage. "
I'm chewing my lower lip absently, I didn't realize it until he reaches over, using his thumb to gently pull my lip loose. "Can you trust me, just for today?"
"What choice do I –" I backtrack. He doesn't deserve the bitter remark. Not today. "Yes. I can do that." And then he says it. My kryptonite.
"Good girl."
There's a high keen rattling around my skull and my knees are instantly weak. Damn him.
He picks up my hand and kisses my wedding ring, then turns it over to kiss my palm. We're close enough that his scent surrounds me, he smells like obscene amounts of money and success, something tangible that hits my senses like a brush fire.
"If you can save a multi-billion-dollar company, you can handle one interview with the most fatuous media personality in North America."
I laugh, just the way I suspect he wanted me to, and wipe my sweaty hands on my dress. It's a Dior, and I'm grateful it's dark blue, the color of Andrey's tie, so my sweat marks can't be seen on this masterpiece. Jessica would stab me for such a terrible sign of weakness.
Blowing out a breath, I say, "Okay. Let's do this."
The timing is perfect, the elevator chimes, Mike McConnell and his crew have been brought by Jessica. Andrey puts his lips to my ear, murmuring, "Do you want a shot of vodka to loosen you up?"
A stifled giggle bursts from my lips and I hastily slap my hand over my mouth.
"No!" I whisper, scandalized. "Don't you know anything?
They don't get to find out we're destructive alcoholics until at least a couple of years after we're established as New York's most fabulous couple.
I'm not going through all that training again! "
Sliding his arm around my waist, Andrey takes me over to the crew, bristling with lights and cameras.
His long fingers trace along the curve of my waist and linger by my hip as he introduces me.
I have to clench my teeth, him touching me is a terrible idea.
They're just fingers! But they're distracting me with their warmth and the soft pressure he's keeping on my hipbone.
"So, Iris, how did you and Andrey meet?"
It took an hour to set up all the cameras and get the lighting straight. We're sitting together on the couch and Jessica is watching the monitor carefully. She's not letting them get out of here with a substandard video. If Andrey isn't carrying a weapon, I'll bet she is.
Shit. Mike, a generically attractive news anchor in his forties, is looking at me expectantly. What did he ask me again? I cross my legs, leaning my knees to the left and smile demurely. Jessica nods at me.
"I've actually known him for some time," I say, going for clear and confident and not too smarmy. "The Morozov family is very close, and when my sister Violet married Roman, his cousin, my twin sister Rose and I were invited to all the family functions."
I smile up at Andrey - his dark gaze is twinkling just slightly because he knows I am working this - then back at a dazzled Mike.
"My sisters and I, it was always just the three of us.
To be welcomed into the arms of the Morozov family, the weddings and parties, holiday dinners, and lunches with wonderfully supportive sisters-in-law…
Well, it's so much more than I could have expected, certainly more than I could have asked for.
When Andrey and I started dating, it felt so natural.
Like it had always been meant to happen.
" I should look at Andrey adoringly again but suddenly, I can't seem to meet his gaze.
"That's beautiful," Mike murmurs, clearly forgetting that his job here is to conduct an incisive interview, one that examines my suitability as a Supreme Court Justice's spouse.
"And for you Andrey-" he cuts himself off. "Ah, Mr. Morozov, what attracted you to Iris? I'm sure you moved in different circles since she's so much younger."
"Yes, she is," Andrey cuts in, smiling urbanely. "And also, a woman who was willing to stand up to me. Iris is not afraid to give me the unvarnished truth, that's something that a Supreme Court Justice needs in his life. A partner who will give an honest reflection of who he is."
"Or she," I add, smiling sweetly. "After all, the bench is evenly divided, male and female. It makes me proud that in New York State, a woman's expertise is taken just as seriously as a man's."
Score one for Iris, I think, gleeful that I could push the feminist perspective and subtly flatter the rest of the justices.
Though based on the looks Justice Elana Carrington was giving Andrey at his nomination party, it might just make her hate us even more.
Spitefully, the vision of her thwarted fury makes me happy and I focus on the next question with a smile.
"I think everyone finds it interesting that you are both twins, identical, in fact. What are the odds? Do you think you understand each other a little better because of it?"
We're both silent, pondering this. Does Andrey feel like I do, that on hard days there's nothing I want more than to call Rose? Did he feel a separation when Nikandr got married?
Andrey goes the easy route. "My brother and I are not identical.”
“Could have fooled me,” Mike says in a jolly tone that I’m sure is killing Andrey.
“Iris and I do relate to each other,” Andrey continues, “since we both understand the profound connection between twins. I believe it adds a layer of understanding to our relationship."
Mike smiles, not knowing he's about to stab me in the chest. "Were your twins at the wedding ceremony?"
No. Rose should have been there.
I don't know if he feels me slump a little, but Andrey easily puts his arm around me. "It was the most… impulsive thing I've ever done, certainly." He glances at me wryly as I laugh. I can't help it.
Maybe it's because he offered me support when he could sense my sadness, but I jump in.
"I, however, have made many impulsive decisions, but I've never regretted this one.
" I tilt my head, giving him a private smile.
"I think I influenced Andrey in this case.
It was just…" I try to think of how to say this. "It was the right time."
"We'll have another celebration for our families," Andrey smoothly moves in and controls the narrative again.
Two excruciating hours later, after every possible camera angle has been shot two or three times and questions re-asked in a slightly different order, we're finally free from the fond intentions of Mike McConnell.
I think he's got a huge man crush on Andrey because he's invited us out to dinner with him and his wife three times before we can successfully get him back into the elevator.
As the doors close on the last of the crew and our bodyguards, I shriek as Andrey abruptly lifts me up, face to face and kisses me.
Such a kiss.
A kiss that starts a fire racing through everything south of my waist and so good that it's an end unto itself. His warm mouth, the slight stubble on his jaw rasping against my cheek, his slick tongue sliding through my parted lips and exploring my mouth.
A weak puff of air escapes my lips as my eyes open. Andrey kisses me one more time, slowly, savoring it. "Are you all right?"
"Uh…" I'm dangling several inches off the floor and at some point, my heels slipped off my limp feet, and my arms are wrapped around his neck. When did that happen? "I'm fine," I say, going for haughty and sounding more like I just huffed something. "I was just a little startled."
"You were magnificent," he says, and I'm not imagining it. My husband is smiling at me. A real one.