Page 32 of Crown of Hate

10

ALYA

Mikhail has gone ghost on me. Three days of barely-there husband, coming and going before I’m even awake. He’s off doing who-knows-what, leaving me alone in his giant house.

I stir in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling. Mama’s face fills my thoughts. It’s been over a week already, and I miss her terribly. My stomach twists. She has probably called non-stop, worried sick, no idea that her daughter is now married to the sworn enemy…

I heave a sigh. Enemy. That’s exactly what Mikhail should be. But he’s my husband now. Mama will be so disappointed when she finds out I wasn’t just forced into the marriage, but that I’m actually attracted to him. How can I explain something I barely understand myself?

Another heavy sigh escapes me as I drag myself out of bed. My feet find my fluffy slippers, a small comfort in this unfamiliar life.

God, I miss my old room, my old life. Everything here feels alien, even after a week.

I shuffle to the bathroom, flicking on the harsh lights. My reflection in the mirror shows a stranger—Alya Zirkhov, wife of Chicago’s most terrifying man. When did I become this person?

A quick shower washes away the sleep, and I throw on some denim shorts and an oversized pink shirt before leaving my room.

In the hallway, Mikhail’s cologne lingers, a subtle reminder of his fleeting presence. I pause, inhaling deep. His scent gives my heart a little flutter and brings a rush of conflicting emotions—frustration at his absence.

I shouldn’t care that he’s gone. I shouldn’t miss him.

But I do. I fucking do.

I force myself to move, trying to push any thoughts of Mikhail out of my head. That’s when another smell hits me—the rich, salty smell of bacon wafting up from downstairs. My stomach rumbles in response. That’s it. Food. Focus on food, not him.

A welcome distraction, I follow my nose towards the kitchen.

As I near the kitchen, I hear movement. Someone’s here. My pulse quickens. Could it be Mikhail?

I step inside, my eyes immediately landing on an unfamiliar figure. It’s not Mikhail, but an older woman with gray hair, expertly flipping bacon in a skillet.

She cranes her neck to look at me, then a warm smile lights up her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Good morning, sweetie.”

“Good morning,” I reply, curiosity overriding my disappointment. I walk to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. “Who are you?”

“I’m Grace,” she answers, and I’m glad she didn’t consider my question rude.

I frown, confusion clouding my thoughts. I’ve met all the staff—the army of housekeepers, the team of chefs, even thegruff security guys. But she’s new. I don’t get it. Mikhail wouldn’t hire a new chef without telling me... would he?

Grace seems to read my confusion as if it’s written all over my face, because she goes, “I know that look. You’re wondering where I came from, aren’t you? I’ve been working for Mr. Zirkhov for years now, long before he left for Russia,” she explains. “Just got back from my yearly vacation. That’s why we haven’t crossed paths until now.”

“Oh.” I perch on a stool by the kitchen island and study her more closely. “I’m Alya.”

A soft smile plays on her lips. “I know exactly who you are, sweetie. And let me tell you, you’re even more beautiful than I’d heard.”

I feel the heat flush my cheeks. I’m still not used to compliments from strangers about my beauty, even though I’ve received them basically all my life. “You’re beautiful too, Grace.”

It’s not empty flattery. Even with the signs of aging, Grace is a looker. Soft features any woman would envy peek through the wrinkles, hinting at a beauty that must have broken many hearts in her youth.

“Oh, I know,” she says, winking playfully. “When I was your age, men were putty in these hands. I had them wrapped around my little finger before they knew what hit them.”

A chuckle bubbles up from my chest, genuine and unexpected. I like her already. She’s real, no BS. “Maybe you could teach me your tricks.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “To get Mr. Zirkhov wrapped around your finger?”

I chew on my bottom lip and nod. The idea is tempting, having that kind of power over him.

“Trust me, child. You’ve already got him hooked, line and sinker.” Using a thong, she picks out the crispy bacon andtransfers it to a plate with a flourish that speaks of years in the kitchen.

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