Page 77 of Sinful Games

Her words hung in the air, heavy with her disconnection. A part of me almost wanted to see if she’d break down or beg, but I shoved that thought aside.

“Then let’s go home,wife.”

Chapter

Twenty-Four

“He who fears he shall suffer, already suffers what he fears.”

?Michel de Montaigne

Caia

Silent and tense, I sat as Romaniev maneuvered into his building’s garage, sliding the car into his private spot like he owned the world. The engine cut off, and unsurprisingly, we headed for his place—not mine. Any shred of hope that he'd reconsider? Gone.

We stepped out, my high heels tapping against the concrete in sync with the tension between us. As we approached the elevator, the silence only grew thicker, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was running through his mind. Was he patting himself on the back for a job well done?Irritated that I didn’t fall all over myself thanking him for the grand gesture?

The gallery was stunning, sure—any artist’s dream. But taking it as a wedding gift forced down my throat? Not a chance. The weight of what I’d signed up for hit me like a bad joke that’s only funny to everyone else.

The one person who never wanted this, stuck in a marriage she never asked for.

But I made a promise to my babushka to fight for my life, for happiness.

So, fine, I lost this battle. But I’m not about to lose the war.

A sudden shiver shot up my arms, memories of the last time I was at Alexsei’s place rushing back. We’d almost had sex.Almost. Until shards ofhimcracked into my mind, and staying became impossible.

In the elevator, our eyes locked. I knew what he was thinking. His gaze said it all—desire, barely held in check.

“Feeling hungry?” he asked, casual, like nothing was wrong. “I can whip up something.”

I shook my head. “I just... I want to sleep.”

When the doors opened, I was hit with the familiar scent of lemon and lavender. His place was always pristine, down to the air itself, which I hated because it made everything feel... controlled. Or maybe it was the reminder that this was my new reality.

I tried not to make eye contact with the couch, but I could still feel the ghosts of us from that night. I froze at the entrance, arms crossed, staring at the floor.

“Where’s my room?” I asked, praying he wasn’t expecting me to share his bed.

“Follow me.”

Kicking off my heels, I padded barefoot behind him through long, art-lined hallways. He opened the door to what Iassumed was a guest room. Dark brown furniture, white bedsheets—a modern, elegant setup, but completely devoid of personality, like a hotel room no one cared about.

I stepped in, feeling that weird mix of relief and unease. Sure, it was a place to sleep, but could I ever make it feel like mine?

Before I could ask him what time it was, he was already gone, disappearing down the hall.

I sighed, shrugging off my coat and tossing it onto the bed. Then my eyes landed on six oversized bags by the dresser. Curious, I unzipped one. Prada. Of course. Dresses, pants, shirts—expensive, over-the-top, all clearly his doing.

As I scanned the room again, I noticed a door across the room. Closed.

Intrigued, I opened the door to reveal an adjoining bathroom, white marble gleaming under soft light, the scent of eucalyptus lingering in the air. The sleek Italian shower beckoned, offering a momentary escape.

I didn’t even bother taking off my dress. I stepped under the stream, makeup mixing with the water as it cascaded over me. Silent tears blended with it, the sobs barely audible, but heavy with everything I hadn’t said.

“I, Alexsei Romaniev vow to protect you, Caia Mankiev, from any harm, cherish you, guide you and love you until death do us part.”

The words replayed in my head, mocking. I was Caia Romaniev now.

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