Page 39 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
I thought about the night of the hotel party, the way he’d looked at me when I’d asked him to make it meaningful. The careful way he’d touched me, like he was afraid I might break or disappear. The way he’d held me afterward, for just a few minutes, before the walls went back up.
And then I thought about how he’d been avoiding me ever since.
“Well, he’s doing a pretty fucking good job of keeping his distance now.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“At least we agree on something.” I went back to my hemming, trying to focus on the precise stitches instead of the frustration building in my chest. “Sometimes I feel like I’m married to a ghost. He’s here, but he’s not really here.”
“He doesn’t know how to do this. The whole marriage thing, letting someone in. He’s never had to before.”
“Neither have I, but I’m trying. He’s not even meeting me halfway.”
Anya was quiet for so long I thought she wasn’t going to answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.
“Eleanor, if you’re trying to make up for what my brother did to you….”
“I’m not,” I interrupted, but she held up a hand.
“Let me finish. If you’re trying to make up for what he did, or if you think you owe us something, you don’t. But if you’re here because you want to be, because this feels right to you, then I need you to know something.”
She leaned forward, her expression serious. “You’re family now. Not because you married Maxim, not because of some legal document, but because you chose to stay. Because you’re fighting to make this work, even when he’s being a complete asshole about it. And I want to help you, not out of guilt or obligation, but because that’s what family does.”
Tears pricked at my eyes, and I blinked them back. “Thank you.”
“Besides,” she added with a grin, “your designs are fucking brilliant, and working with you is the most fun I’ve had in years.”
We worked together until late that evening, Anya helping me adjust patterns while I sketched new pieces. It felt goodto have someone in my corner, someone who understood both the creative process and the complicated dynamics of loving a Voronov man.
When I finally made it back to the main house, I found Maxim in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in his hands. He was still in his work clothes, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal the lean muscles of his forearms.
“Working late?” he asked.
“Always. You?”
“Same.”
We stood there for a moment, two people who shared a home but barely shared a conversation anymore. The space between us felt like an ocean, and I was tired of being the only one trying to swim across it.
“I was thinking,” I said, moving to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water. “We should have dinner together tomorrow night. Actually sit down, eat real food, talk like normal married people.”
Something flickered across his face, too quick to interpret. “I might be working late.”
“Then we’ll eat late. Maxim, when’s the last time we had a real conversation? About anything other than logistics or schedules or business?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I, and that’s the problem.”
He set down his coffee cup, and for a moment, I thought he might actually engage with what I was saying. Instead, he kissed my forehead, a brief, distant gesture that felt more like dismissal than affection.
“Get some sleep, Eleanor. You look tired.”
He was gone before I could respond, leaving me standing in the kitchen with the taste of disappointment bitter on my tongue.
But I wasn’t giving up that easily.
***
