Page 46 of Crown of Hate

He smirks, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “Alright, wife. Have a good day. Stay out of trouble.”

“I'll try,” I respond, but secretly, I know I'll never be able to resist the pull of my desires. I watch as he exits the room, his hips swaying with an almost predatory grace.

Once he's gone, the room feels colder, emptier. And I can't help but think of the game I'm playing. Will I really be able to convince him I love him? And more importantly, will I be able to not fall in love with him?

The voice in my head and the one in my heart are at war. What if it backfires and I’m the one left at his mercy?

The thought sends a shiver down my spine—of fear or excitement, I’m not sure anymore.

“I’m fine, Mama.” I heave a sigh and sink onto the edge of the bed. My stomach churns with guilt. Ever since Mikhail gave me my phone back, I’ve been walking a thin line between wanting to tell Mama everything and biting my tongue for both of our sakes. She can’t find out about him and me. She hates him as much as Papa did. I can’t bear to worry her when she’s still on her treatment.

I picture her brow furrowing with concern as she asks. “Are you sure? Your aunt Ripley stopped by last week. She said you weren’t home.”

Fuck! My thoughts whirl, desperately grasping for a convincing lie. I need to answer quickly or she’ll know something is off. “I’m at Sophia’s. It gets too lonely without you, so I came here for a few days.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” she replies, and a fleeting wave of relief washes over me. Then: “Put her on, will you? I’d like a quick chat with her.”

“No.” I blurt out, then jam my finger between my teeth, biting down hard.Way to go, Alya. “I mean, she went out to get some groceries. She won’t be back until later. How’s your treatment going?”

Thankfully, she buys the distraction and doesn’t push further. “It’s going well. Oh, and good news—my hair stopped falling out. I’ll send you a selfie.”

My phone pings, and I pull it away from my ear to check the picture. Mama looks radiant, despite the brutal toll cancer and chemotherapy have taken on her body. Her eyes—my eyes—are a warm, light brown. Her auburn hair is trimmed downto her scalp, but it gleams with a newfound healthiness, a stark contrast to when I last saw her.

Tears cloud my vision as I stare at the picture. The relief is overwhelming. She’s getting better. I won’t be all alone after all.

A flood of plans rushes through my mind—shopping sprees, vacations, maybe even matching tattoos. There’s so much I want to do with her that I don’t think I’ll ever recover if anything ever happens to her.

Losing Papa was enough. Losing Mama, too, would break me completely.

I swipe at the tears streaming down my face and press the phone back against my ear. “You look amazing, Mama.”

She chuckles, a sound I’ve missed so much the last few days it aches. “I’d say ‘a little bit less zombie-like’ is more like it.”

I sniffle. “Thanks for fighting. For getting better.” I throw my head back in a desperate attempt not to cry.

“No, I should be thanking you. I wouldn’t be strong enough to fight this if I didn’t have you.”

Aunt Ripley’s voice echoes in the background.

“Your aunt’s back home. I should go,” Mama says. “Talk to you again later. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you too, Mama. Bye.”

As the call ends, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, tears now flowing freely. The joy in my chest is so overwhelming that it spills over, leaving me in a flood of silent relief and gratitude.

When the tears finally subside, I want nothing more than to lie down and burrow into my pillow while I lose myself in fantasies about Mikhail. But it’s afternoon and my growling stomach has other ideas.

Sliding my legs in my fluffy slippers, I amble down to the kitchen where the irresistible aroma of something delicious pulls me in. Grace is at the oven door, waiting for whatever is inside. I lean against the kitchen island, taking in the delicious scent.

“Hi, Grace,” I say, rising onto my toes and stretching my neck to get a glimpse of what’s cooking. “Smells like heaven.”

She turns around with a warm smile. “When it comes to pasta, no one does it like me.”

I huff out a laugh. “Bragging about your cooking skills, huh?”

“Trust me, child. If you could cook like this, you’d shout it from the rooftops.” She slips on some oven mittens and opens the oven door. “Speaking of, can you cook?”

My stomach rumbles at the sight of the perfectly made pasta she places on the counter. It’s nestled in a savory tomato sauce, with flecks of fresh basil and a golden, melted cheese topping. “I can. But whether it’s edible or not might depend on who’s brave enough to try it.”

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