Page 62 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“And the time you couldn’t stand the smell of Dr. Patel’s food? Or when you nearly passed out during rounds?”

I avoid her gaze in the mirror. “It’s stress. Seeing Casey today didn’t help.” Before she can say more, Valeriya appears in the doorway of the bathroom, looking worried. “I’m all right,” I say before she asks. “I was just having a conversation with Liv and felt faint. I need to eat.” I flash my worried-looking friend a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She looks uncertain but nods. “Enjoy your date.”

“I will.” As Valeriya and I walk toward the exit, I focus on my breathing, pushing away the thoughts trying to surface. Just tired. Just stressed. Nothing more.

Fydor opens the car door when he sees us approaching. “Everything okay, Mrs. Antonova?”

“Fine.” I slide into the backseat. “Just needed to grab my purse.”

As the car pulls away from the hospital a second time, I press my forehead against the cool window glass and make a production of eating the granola bar in my purse, aware of Valeriya watching me. The city lights blur together, creating streaks of color against the darkness. My stomach protests for a moment, but then it settles as the food hits, and I start to feel immediately better.

My hand drifts to my stomach, then quickly moves to the emerald at my throat instead. Just tired. Just in love with a man I never expected to love. Just a little stress. Nothing more.

18

Damir

Iend the video conference with a nod, watching as the faces of my international investors disappear from the screen. The deal is done—twenty million secured for the new development on the east side of the city. Another piece of my empire shifting from shadow to light.

“Anton?” I call, and he appears in the doorway of my study. “Make sure the paperwork is filed properly. I want this project above reproach.”

“Of course.” His expression remains neutral, but I detect the slight lift in his voice. He appreciates these legitimate ventures as much as I do. Less blood and more profit.

I check my watch, It’s 6:48 p.m. Elena should have been home almost thirty minutes ago, and our reservation is at 8:30. This is unusual for her, since she values punctuality almost as much as I do. I tap my phone, scrolling through the security reports. No messages from her and nothing concerning from her detail, but...

My phone vibrates with a text from Valeriya:Dr. Clarke mentioned not feeling well at hospital. On our way now.

I frown. Elena sick? She rarely complains about anything, even when she works thirty-six hour shifts. “Anton,” I call, waiting until he returns to the doorway to say, “Cancel our reservation at Lumière. Call Marcello’s instead and have them send over the usual selection but add those chocolate soufflés Elena likes.”

Viktor nods and disappears to make the arrangements. I move through the penthouse, straightening items that don’t need straightening. Four months of marriage today. Not that Elena would consider it a real anniversary since our arrangement was supposed to be temporary and clinical. Six months of marriage to provide me an alibi, then she’d be free.

Yet everything is different now. I’m different.

Moments later, the elevator announces her arrival with a soft chime. I turn as the doors open, revealing Elena with Valeriya at her side. My wife looks pale, her normally vibrant complexion washed out under the elevator lights.

“Thank you, Valeriya. That will be all for tonight,” I say, dismissing the security detail.

Elena steps into the penthouse, removing her coat with mechanical movements. I take it from her, hanging it in the closet. “You’re late,” I observe, keeping my tone neutral.

“Sorry. Got caught up at the hospital.” Her voice lacks its usual energy.

“Are you unwell?” I ask, studying her face. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and she moves with a sluggishness that concerns me.

“Just tired. Long day.” She offers a weak smile that doesn’t really soften her reflection. “I thought we were going out tonight,” she says, frowning as she notices I’m wearing black slacks and a casual sweater. “Are you running late too?”

“No, but our plans have changed. You’re tired, so we’ll eat here.”

She nods absently, not protesting at all. She appears relieved, letting me know I’ve made the right decision. “Let me shower and change.” She disappears upstairs for twenty minutes, giving the food time to arrive.

I wait in the dining room, and soon, the doorbell rings. Moments later, a maid appears with a rolling cart to set up our meal. Marcello’s is as prompt as ever, I see. The table is arranged with candles and flowers. It’s not my usual style, but I’ve learned Elena appreciates these gestures, and it’s our anniversary.

When she returns, her hair is damp from the shower, and she’s wearing a skirt and sleeveless top with no makeup. She’s mouth-watering.

It’s all I can do to keep from detouring her to my lap when she takes her seat. The maid serves us a selection of Elena’s favorites. Truffle risotto, pan-seared scallops, and roasted vegetables. I pour white wine but notice she doesn’t touch her glass. “Not drinking tonight?” I ask, watching as she pushes food around her plate without eating.

“Not in the mood.” She yawns. “It’ll knock me right out.”

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