Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Natasha
My father, Nikolai, called me.
I didn't know if I should answer. Ever since he'd said those things to me at the wedding, I'd stopped seeing him as my father. And over the past month, he hadn't contacted me at all.
I stared at Nikolai's name on the screen, almost hanging up several times. This past month, I'd successfully erased this man from the script of my life. But—
The way Dante had been treating me lately—damn near spoiling me—had slowly loosened that tight knot of resentment I'd been clutching onto.
I wasn't that pathetic little girl anymore, the one locked in the Kornilov attic who couldn't even earn a glance from her father. I could take this call. I could hear what he had to say. I wasn't afraid of this man anymore.
"Nikolai." My voice came out dry.
His cold, hard voice came through, punctuated by the metallic click of a lighter igniting a cigar. "Natasha. I just heard from Vera's side."
No asking how I'd been this past month. Straight to the point. "She might be coming back in the next day or two."
I opened my mouth. Not a sound came out.
Two seconds of silence on his end.
"Natasha." Nikolai's tone softened, just barely. "I don't know why your sister's coming back. But whatever happens, be ready. That's the last piece of advice I can give you as your father."
Then he hung up without waiting for my response.
Panic crashed through me like a wave.
Vera was coming back. What the hell. Why now?
Was she coming for Dante?
I threw my phone down and buried my face in my hands, trying to calm down.
I couldn't lie to myself. I couldn't pretend this past month of sweetness with Dante was built on solid ground. Our marriage had been a ridiculous accident from the start. Dante was supposed to marry someone else. He never wanted to marry me at all.
If Vera hadn't run that day, if Nikolai hadn't shoved me into that ill-fitting wedding dress, Dante probably would never have looked at me again.
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath.
I couldn't hide this from Dante.
I had no right to hide it. This was his life.
This was the woman he was supposed to marry.
He deserved to know. He deserved to make his own choice.
If he wanted to go back to Vera, all I could do was step out of this marriage—gracefully, quietly—the marriage I never should have been part of in the first place.
I'd been living in a dream for a month.
It was enough.
I pushed myself up from the bed, opened the master bedroom door, and walked heavily toward the dining room.
Dante sat at the table. He wore a tailored black suit, crisp white shirt underneath, tie perfectly knotted without a single wrinkle.
He held a white porcelain coffee cup in one hand, the day's financial paper in the other.
He looked handsome and composed, like a nobleman stepped out of a classical painting.
My chest tightened. God, why did I have to fall in love with this man again right before everything fell apart?
Richard pulled out the chair to Dante's right. I sat down.
The buttery smell of food filled my nose, but I had no appetite. I picked up my silver fork and pushed food around my plate absently, my eyes fixed on Dante's face.
If he didn't plan to continue this marriage, I needed to prepare myself for being thrown out, not wait to be humiliated when Vera showed up. I had to speak up, even though I knew the moment I did, this would all be over. But I had no other choice.
I cleared my throat, trying to loosen the dryness.
Dante stopped turning pages. He looked up from his paper, a question in his eyes.
I met his gaze, my hands twisted together under the table. "Dante, there's something I need to ask you." The words came hard.
Dante folded his paper and set it aside, putting down his coffee cup too.
"What do you want to know?" His tone was gentle.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "Vera's apparently coming back to New York. If she shows up in front of you again, what are you going to do?"
After asking, my heart hammered so hard I thought it would crack my ribs. I stared at his face, watching for the slightest twitch.
The moment Dante heard Vera's name, his fingers stopped tapping on the table.
My heart was suspended with his silence.
Tell me the truth. Even if you're going to kick me out, just tell me straight. Don't lie.
I prayed silently.
Then Dante reached across the table and covered my left hand with his right. His palm was warm, his fingertips brushing softly across my knuckles.
Dante looked straight into my eyes.
"Natasha, what are you thinking?" He squeezed my palm. "You've already captured my heart completely. I don't care if she comes back. You're the only wife I have."
I looked into his deep eyes, feeling my own start to burn.
"For your sake, I'm willing to let the past go." Dante continued. "I'll even forgive her betrayal. As long as she doesn't interfere with our life now."
Hearing his solemn promise, my heart finally dropped from my throat back into my stomach. I gripped his hand tightly, feeling the real warmth he offered.
I cursed myself silently.
I was stupid and paranoid. Dante had been so attentive these past months. He'd given me every privilege in this manor. He'd even personally chosen curtains for my studio. We made love almost every day. I had no reason to doubt his commitment.
I forced myself to delete Nikolai's phone call from my mind completely. Since Dante had made his promise, I had no reason to fear Vera's return.
The next few days flew by.
During this time, Dante used his enormous wealth to arrange my first solo exhibition. I'd been preparing for so long, spending almost every day in the studio.
I still couldn't believe it—an entire gallery filled with paintings that used to hide in the Kornilov attic.
Dante had originally wanted something much grander—he'd even contacted a curator named Fitzgerald. I'd begged him to scale it down to a mid-sized private gallery in Chelsea.
Opening night, the normally quiet street outside was lined with at least twenty black cars of brands I probably couldn't even name. Men in black suits and earpieces stood on either side of the gallery entrance, eyes scanning every guest with sharp vigilance.
Dante had cleared his entire schedule to escort me tonight.
I'd spent days telling myself this would just be a normal, small, intimate exhibition. But the moment I pushed open that glass door, my legs went weak.
The gallery was packed. At least seventy or eighty people.
I knew why they were here tonight—probably not for me or the paintings. But they maintained their decorum, standing in small clusters in front of my work, pretending to admire it.
Whenever we approached, those men who commanded the underworld would immediately stop talking and step forward with ingratiating smiles.
"Mrs. Romanov. Your work is truly stunning." The head of the Falcone family raised his glass, voice booming. "I see profound emotion in them. You and Mr. Dante are absolutely the most enviable couple in all of New York."
Others chimed in with the most elaborate compliments.
Even after a month, I still couldn't get used to this treatment. I could only offer strained smiles.
Halfway through the exhibition, Dante stayed glued to my side. When someone tried to hand me a drink, he'd smoothly intercept it. When someone got too close, he'd drive them back with a cold stare.
I felt like my twenty-plus years of suppression and endurance had never been as happy and complete as this moment. I'd received love and absolute respect I'd never dared dream of. I could barely believe it was real, that it all belonged to me.
But just as I was drowning in that sweetness—the arm that had been wrapped tightly around my waist suddenly froze. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense at once.
I stopped mid-conversation and turned to look at Dante's profile.
Dante wasn't looking at me. His gaze was locked on the gallery entrance.
I followed his eyes.
At the wide doorway stood a beautifully dressed, dazzling figure. My sister, whom I hadn't seen in months—Vera.
She'd clearly prepared meticulously for tonight's appearance.
Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders like molten moonlight, making those blue eyes even more striking.
A form-fitting white dress traced every curve of her waist and hips, swaying as she moved.
Vera held a huge bouquet of red roses, though they couldn't compete with her own radiance.
She was breathtakingly beautiful.
Whispers rippled through the crowd. The previously noisy gallery fell quiet in this section. Every eye darted between me, Vera, and Dante.
The air felt sucked from the room. My legs went weak. What made me dizzy was that when he saw Vera approaching, Dante instinctively released his arm from around me.
Not only that—he stepped back half a pace. Creating distance between our previously close bodies.
Cold shot straight into my bones.
Vera ignored the stares, smiled, and walked toward us step by step. She reached out and forcefully shoved the red roses into my arms.
"Natasha. My dear sister. Congratulations on your tremendously successful exhibition." Vera smiled. "I came straight from the airport. How could I miss such an important moment in your life?"
The roses were heavy. Thorns poked through the wrapping into my palm.
I tried to pull my mouth into a polite smile.
"Thank you, Vera."
Then Vera slowly turned her head, finally looking at Dante standing behind me.
Vera's eyes reddened almost instantly. She took a deep breath.
"Dante. I'm sorry. For leaving without a word. I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
Carefully, barely moving, I glanced at Dante beside me. He said nothing, just stared coldly at Vera.
Vera reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek, showing a bitter smile.
"Seeing you two so happy—I'm truly glad. Congratulations, Dante. You finally found someone better than me. She really is more suited to you than I ever was."
"Better? You're right about that."
Dante gave a mocking smile. He grabbed my hand again. But he didn't look at me. He stared hard into Vera's eyes. "You don't need to say any of this. Natasha and I are very happy. Our life doesn't need your blessing. You can leave now."
Dante was defending our relationship, but I couldn't feel happy about it. Because when Dante said those words, the hand gripping mine was tightening frantically. Tight enough to hurt. Maybe he didn't even realize it.
Vera showed a broken smile. She nodded and bowed politely to us.
"Congratulations again. My presence here will only cause gossip. I'll leave now." Her voice was barely audible.
After speaking, she didn't linger. She turned and walked toward the gallery doors, step by step. Her back looked fragile.
I turned to look at Dante.
He still stood beside me, holding my hand, crushing my bones.
But his head had turned completely. His gaze was glued to my sister's retreating figure. As if his soul had already left this gallery with that woman.