Page 29 of Crown of Hate

As we step out, Mikhail offers me his hand, and I take it, following him inside.

We enter a store that sells only the most exclusive designer labels. It’s the kind of place I haven’t set foot in since my papa died. Back then, Mama always stressed the importance of being fiscally responsible, drilling it into my head that we couldn’t go splurging on the latest Louis Vuitton or Alexander McQueen.

The store’s manager personally welcomes us alongside three of her assistants. She’s a pale-skinned beauty with black hair and lovely light brown eyes. A saccharine smile is plastered on her face.

Her gaze never wavers from Mikhail as she purrs, “Welcome, Mr. Zirkhov.” It’s as if I’m not even standing here.

Mikhail doesn’t smile back, but I notice he’s not wearing his usual blank mask. There’s a subtle shift—the barest softening around his eyes that makes me wonder if he and this Annabelle woman know each other quite well. Maybe he’s a regular customer. Odd, considering this is awomen’sboutique.

“Bring out everything you have in limited edition,” Mikhail commands, his tone leaving no room for disagreement.

“Of course.” Annabelle’s gaze flicks down to where our hands are joined, her smile hardening ever so slightly as she still avoids looking in my direction. “I see you’ve brought another?—”

Mikhail’s grip on my hand tightens. I don’t know whether he’s upset or just being protective, but it’s comforting. “She’s mywife,” he says, cutting her off. “Refer to her as Mrs. Zirkhov.”

“Oh.” Her saccharine smile quickly fades away, replaced by a brittle grin that’s faker than a Hollywood prop. “My apologies, Mrs. Zirkhov.” She gestures towards the interior of the store. “This way, please.”

As we follow her, I can’t help but be awed by the sheer opulence surrounding us. Rack upon rack of the most exquisite dresses, shirts, and accessories—each piece looking like it costs more than a small country.

And then it hits me—we’re the only customers here. Which can only mean one thing…

I tug on Mikhail’s hand and he lowers his gaze to mine. “Did you rent the whole place?” I ask with a voice that is barely above a whisper.

He bobs his head, looking pleased with himself. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

My cheeks flush hot. “Well, aren’t you the thoughtful one,” I mumble, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “FYI, I’m notthatantisocial, you know.”

“I know, I just wanted to do something special for you.” His eyes soften in a way that makes my insides melt.

Why does he have to be so damn considerate? It would be so much easier to hate him if he acted like the cold-blooded killer I know he is.

Annabelle leads us to a section brimming with the most breathtaking dresses I’ve ever laid eyes on. “These are limited edition dresses for every occasion,” she informs us, her clippedtone betraying her obvious annoyance. “There are only ten of each of these designs in all of North America and Europe.”

I’m in awe as I weave through the racks, my fingers caressing the delicate fabrics and my eyes soaking in the intricate beadwork and lace. “They’re stunning,” I breathe, my mind already parading these masterpieces down imaginary runways. Every gown demands attention, and every one I touch is more tempting than the last, leaving me dizzy with which to pick out. But beneath the excitement, anxiety gnaws at me. My hand hesitates, caught between desire and doubt.

These price tags could choke a millionaire, and it’s not even my money. I’m playing dress-up with someone else’s platinum card. The thought makes my palms sweat.

I'm also acutely aware of Mikhail's presence trailing behind me, and to my surprise, he’s actively participating, picking through racks with genuine interest, not lounging on the couches in the corner sipping champagne and grumbling about how much time I’m wasting.

His dedication sparks a warmth in my chest. For a heartbeat, I let myself believe that this isn’t just a façade. That maybe, just maybe, the cold-blooded killer actually gives a damn.

No.

Reality check, sweetheart:

Men like Mikhail don’t fall in love. They just tolerate their wives.

And me? I’m not even in love. I’m just… intoxicated. Drunk on danger and devastatingly good looks. It’s a cocktail that will leave one hell of a hangover.

He steps closer, and my stomach flip-flops.

God, I’m in way over my head.

“Mikhail, what do you think of this one?” I snag a dress and turn around to face him. It’s a red dress with thin straps and a fabric that glints under the soft store lights.

He devours the space between us, his gaze a physical caress as it sweeps from hem to neckline before meeting mine. “Beautiful, Alya. But this…” He pulls out a rose gold creation that puts my pick to shame. “This would make you look like a goddess.”

Heat blazes up my neck as I imagine myself in such a dress—one chosen by Mikhail. My husband.

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