Chapter 04
Maksim
Svetlana turned toward the window twelve minutes ago and hasn’t said a word since.
I should be satisfied. I prefer silence to meaningless chatter.
But there are different kinds of silence.
And this isn’t the kind I’m used to. It’s not the silence of obedience.
No. This woman is quiet because she’s finished saying what she had to say and has decided I don’t deserve another word until she decides otherwise.
I’ve interrogated grown men who pissed themselves just looking at my mask. She didn’t even flinch—just raised her chin and spoke.
It grates on my nerves as much as seeing the back of that bun while she stares out the window.
I watch her more closely. The straight spine, even against the leather seat. The chin still raised. Her hands rest motionless in her lap, except when one rises to twist the small pearl earring. She has a tell. A crack in the combative posture she presented. Good.
The beauty might be a problem.
From the photo in the file, it was already clear she was beautiful.
But in person, even more so. Svetlana is stunning even in that ratty sweater and worn clothes.
The full mouth, high cheekbones, and elegant line of her chin are breathtaking.
A beautiful wife is a status symbol. But a stunning wife? That’s a problem.
Enemies might desire her. Allies might want her.
Fuck, I might succumb.
I push the thought away and return to what she said earlier, about her parents. The damn phrase has been hammering in my head ever since:
“Killing is too quick. Let them both rot, knowing the daughter they traded for a debt lives better than they ever will.”
I offered her the clean solution, and she refused. Not out of love for her parents, scruples, or any weakness. Svetlana refused because she was thinking further ahead. She saw cruelty in patience, in taking time to watch them wither. It’s the less obvious path, the colder one, and she chose it.
It’s exactly the kind of thing I would do.
And that’s where the problem with my plan lies, though “problem” isn’t the right word.
I don’t know what would fit better. I asked Vladimir for a functional wife—useful, presentable, no ties, no drama, disposable the day I decided.
A woman I could seat at a dinner table to silence a rumor and forget the rest of the time.
The dossier he brought me showed a victim: the broken ballerina, daughter of drunk parents, in a forgotten little town in the middle of nowhere. Victims are easy to handle.
This woman beside me is not a victim.
She’s someone who survived the way I survived.
Hardening until she turned to stone, then learning to use that to her advantage.
I recognize we have something in common.
Maybe we think the same way. Maybe we learned to survive by following similar rules, even if nothing about them would be considered normal.
But I don’t know what to do with this conclusion. Or with the recognition it stirs.
Svetlana is much more than that photo revealed.
The gate opens before the car arrives or anyone touches the remote. Yuri is watching our every move. Cameras cover the entire property, backed by elite cybersecurity, and Yuri controls all of them.
The property appears after the curve: gray stone, three floors, narrow windows facing a courtyard that looks like a garden but is actually an outdoor shooting and training range.
The woods at the back are where Ivan usually stays.
When I look at the house, I don’t see a home—just territory, strategic points, and a secure location.
As soon as the car stops, Igor gets out to open the door for my bride. Svetlana steps out slowly and pauses beside the car, facing the house.
She sweeps her gaze across the place. Not with the fear I’d expect from any woman in this situation, but with attention.
Her eyes climb the facade, find the first camera, the second, drop to the main door, slide to the sides.
She seems to be counting exits. Measuring the distance between them.
I imagine it’s a ballerina’s habit—whenever she enters a new stage, she needs to analyze every detail of the space. But then I realize:
She’s calculating escape. On her first night here. Before even setting foot inside the house.
This should irritate me deeply. I wait for anger and irritation to arrive, but they don’t.
Once again, that feeling of recognition hits me.
I understand this instinct. The mental calculations and the search for exits.
For ways to stay alive. And I respect the hell out of it.
I’d take a woman counting doors over a woman crying on my shoulder any day.
That’s what I tell myself, at least.
Olga waits on the steps, in black as always. Hands clasped, white hair pulled back impeccably. She looks Svetlana up and down, unhurried, the way she does with any new soul about to step into her house. Because of course the house is hers, not mine.
It’s interesting to watch the silent standoff between them. My bride holds the housekeeper’s gaze with the same seriousness and polite coldness, without lowering her chin, without being overly submissive or eager to please.
Olga is the first to look away. She turns to me with a brief nod, approving of the woman I just brought home to live with me, but without even asking her name.
“Maksimka, have you eaten?”
“No.”
“I figured as much.” She turns back inside. “There’s soup.”
That’s it. But I’ve known Olga long enough to know that if she thought the new resident was going to cause problems, she would have asked her name.
Olga, the woman who raised me from the age of eight with strictness but also with affection and care, simply lets it go and gives her approval.
How relieved this makes me feel is something I didn’t expect either.
Let alone something I want to process right now.
As soon as we enter the house, I head straight to the office, leaving Olga to guide Svetlana through and show her around, including our bedroom.
Our bedroom.
I ordered them to have her settle into the master suite with me. Not because I wanted anything from her—actually, I didn’t even think about that when I chose her as my wife. But because the goal is to silence the rumors, and a wife who sleeps in the guest room doesn’t silence anything.
That’s why she’ll be sleeping with me from now on, by my side.
I go upstairs hours later, hoping she’s already asleep. I’m a criminal, a violent man, and my reputation is far from stellar, but I don’t want my future wife to feel uncomfortable on her first night here.
The bedroom door is ajar, with a faint light escaping into the hallway. Anya is curled up on one side of the bed, almost falling off the edge, trying to take up as little space as possible on the king-size bed. Ridiculous.
I try to be silent as I cross the room toward the bathroom, where I take a quick shower before heading to the closet to find some comfortable sweats.
When I come out, she’s still curled up in the same spot, but now her expression is slightly more relaxed, her mouth slightly open, breathing slowly in a deep sleep.
I could simply lie down beside her. But I’m afraid the movement of my heavy body on the mattress might wake her. So I give up on sleeping tonight. I return silently to the door, careful not to make any noise as I close it.
On my way to the TV room, ready to spend the early morning hours watching some terrible show, one detail catches my attention. She chose to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door.
I told Vladimir to find me a beautiful, useful, and disposable wife. He brought me the only damn woman in the world who’s like me.