Page 87 of Mercy in Betrayal

Did I do something wrong? I glance down at my dress, one of many he stocked my closet with, but I don’t see anything wrong.

He finally acknowledges me with a grunt and walks past me, strides unfaltering.

And then my two escorts—two, as though I’m someone dangerous—return me to my room. I take a seat in one of the stiff chairs that flank the window, careful not to wrinkle my dress, and I wait.

I’ve grown to be very patient.

My sister and her husband wouldn’t recognize me.

An hour or so later, Dumb and Dumber return to take me to the dining room to eat dinner with Ivan at a long dining table. He sits at one end, and I sit at the other. He doesn’t speak throughout the meal; the only sounds in the room are the clink of flatware against china and the dull thump of his glass against the table.

I hate this silence.

I have to speak.

What is wrong with him?

I clear my throat when a maid places a small dish of crème brulee in front of me. This is the final course. If it goes poorly, I won’t have too much time left to linger and be the worse for it.

“This is my favorite dessert.”

Lame.

Without raising my head, I lift my gaze to look at Ivan across the length of the table. His spoon is poised over his crème brulee, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and bemusement.

His gaze flickers slightly, and the servant leaves the room.

“I do not like those dresses on you,” he responds. “Do not wear them again.”

It’s my turn to be surprised. “I…” Through sheer force of will, I swallow the argument that rises in my throat and nod. “I won’t.”

The servant reenters the room, another crème brulee in her hands. She places it in front of me. I look up to see Ivan watching expectantly.

I really don’t want another dessert, but I lift my spoon. “Thank you.”

Afterward, Dumb and Dumber usher me back to my room once again.

I’ve always had someone to talk to. I don’t even have my phone, so I can’t text or call Rowan. The silence would be oppressive, except for the conundrum that is Ivan Romanov and the constant sound of construction coming from somewhere in the house.

At least, I guess it’s construction. It sounds like the buzz of saws and the roll of chains. Loud banging…that sort of thing.

Maybe Ivan is into home renovation.

***

Everything changes one morning, and I don’t know why.

I’ve been doing everything as expected, terrified, frankly, that the smallest misstep will result in something happening to Angel. And I can’t lose another sibling. I’ve already lost so much.

Even if he is a liar and a manipulative asshole, Angel is my brother. I’ll do whatever I have to…be whatever kind of wife Ivan Romanov desires…to keep him alive.

February is fading gradually into March, and today, I woke to discover a kind of balmy promise of spring on the horizon.

For our evening meeting, I chose a wispy cotton dress from the new selection of garments Ivan had delivered to my closet—these new ones completely different in nature from the previous ones. Sweeter, less revealing. More Gilmore Girl than Real Housewives, which is much more ‘me’ than the first round of clothing.

As usual, the door opens, and Ivan stops in front of me as I stand at the bottom of the staircase. This time, though, he opens his mouth and speaks.

“It is time for us to discuss my expectations for you.”

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