Page 40 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
While this isn’t the exact same house his brother Maxim lives in, the one we’re pulling up to now looks eerily similar—no doubt within the same location if not the same neighborhood.
It’s sprawling, more modern with a winding driveway and acres of neatly manicured property. It’s as if someone wanted to copy the coziness of Maxim’s home, but applied the crisp, overly neat style of Vadim. The resulting creation is both breathtaking and imposing.
“Allow me to help you with these, Miss,” the long-suffering driver insists as he helps me out of the backseat. Between the two of us, we manage to carry most of the packages to the front door, which opens before I can even form a fist to knock.
“Such a late hour,” a man suavely remarks. “I was just about to retire to bed and assume you’d used my accounts to charter your own private plane.”
“I could do that?” The marvels of men with money. Shaking my head, I try to focus. “What the hell is this, Gorgoshev?” I step forward, barging into the entry, and I drop my packages right there in the middle of an open foyer. While the house may somewhat resemble his brother’s from the outside, the inside is all Vadim.
Cool, neutral colors—beige, gray, white, and black. Incomprehensible cleanliness. And then the chaos that comes with me and my five thousand shopping bags.
“Thank you for seeing her home,” Vadim warmly tells the driver while tucking a large wad of cash into his palm. “Goodnight.”
He heads to the door to see the man off while I take the opportunity to march through the first level of the home. It is massive. A large living room overlooks a view of the water, glistening in the moonlight. Within the same open floor plan is a gorgeous kitchen complete with stainless steel appliances and a double oven.
“Don’t tell me you cook as well?” I call over my shoulder, sensing him within earshot.
He chuckles. “No. I had it installed anyway, just in case my fake wife would enjoy the feature. I made sure to cover the cliché basics of what most women supposedly like.”
“Wrong.” I stick out my thumb and point it to the floor. “I hate cooking.”
“Fair enough. It will make for a beautiful focal point during our meals of delivery,” he says as I coincidentally pass a sleek bar counter that serves as the bridge to a dining room positioned near a row of massive bay windows. Not far from it is a small lounge complete with black bookshelves already stocked and a neat, official-looking study.
“You really just moved in?” I ask. He makes it look so easy when I can barely organize myself out of a suitcase.
Rather than answer, he trails me until I circle around to the front of the house, my tour completed.
“I suppose you can help me carry these upstairs.” I gesture to the mountain of packages. “The brown ones are yours. Any other color is mine.”
“The brown ones…” He eyes the mostly brown pile of bags and shoots me a quizzical glance.
“I wasn’t sure of your size, so I had to guess,” I say, ignoring the implications conveyed by the prospect that I may or may not have spent more time shopping for him than myself. “You can leave mine by the door since I won’t be staying here long.”
Though should I even consider staying here at all? Spending the night in a fully populated hotel with a dangerously sexy billionaire is one thing. Holing up with him in his private, sprawling mansion is another thing entirely.
But by the time I mount the topmost step of the modern staircase leading upstairs, I promptly forget all about logistics and decency.
“Oh my gosh,” I exclaim, spinning in a circle to take in the architecture. High ceilings. Gray, textured walls, and black wooden floors create a sleek, impressive effect so different from my perfect, white-picket-fence dream home. The hall branches into two ends, leading to two separate wings of the house. I start toward the right side, finding a short hallway lined with just two doors. I reach for one, and Vadim makes a sound in his throat that stops me in my tracks.
“That one is private,” he says, but his tone makes me bite back a taunting retort. He sounds on-edge for once. Nervous?
A part of me warns that he could be hiding the bodies of his previous fake fiancées in there. Either way, I back off, letting him have this one round.
Turning on my heel, I begin to explore the other wing. The first door I open predictably leads into a massive master suite, but unlike the hotel’s more classic décor, this one reads him down to the last detail. Gray walls. Navy accents. A huge bed—far too big for someone intent on living alone.
“Another feature to tempt your fake wife?” I wonder while running my fingers over the navy bedspread.
“No,” he says in a deadpan tone. “The closet, however? Well, you be the judge.”
An excited thrill has me nearly running to the door he indicates with a curt nod. Sure enough, I find a magical realm of possibility in the form of a closet so big it spans not one, but two entire rooms, each one decked out with plenty of storage for both practical use and display.
He must have it organized into two sections. The first belongs to him, already stocked with a selection of boring, professional attire. The second is mostly bare despite a small collection of neatly arranged Chanel and my previous purchases. What had seemed excessive in the hotel room now looks pitiful, barely taking up a full rack.
“Your future fake wife is a lucky woman,” I admit, my heart panging with longing as I spot a full wall of shelves that she could dedicate to purses and shoes alone. Not to mention her ring—for the first time, I inspect the jewelry sparkling on my left hand in full and bite down a groan. The only terms my brain can come up with to describe it aregorgeous, big ass, diamond. With difficulty, I turn away and catch him watching me, his devious gaze as unfathomable as ever.
“Chop-chop!” I clap my hands commandingly. “Go fetch my purchases, please. It’s time to give you a makeover.” I eye him with a raised brow, surprisingly excited to see how he’ll look in what I picked out. “We’ll cover the basics first,” I warn as he strolls into the hall, seemingly unbothered at being bossed around.
“Oh?” he wonders. The subtle, taunting inflection in his tone makes me gulp, but this time I’m prepared with a devious trick to regain the upper hand.
