Page 46 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“I’m asking him to trust me.”
“Same thing, in his world.”
I resumed my pacing, energy crackling under my skin like electricity with nowhere to go. The walls of the studio suddenly felt too close, the air too thin. I needed space, needed perspective, needed to talk to someone who wasn’t related to my emotionally constipated husband.
“I need to get out of here,” I said.
Anya’s expression sharpened. “Eleanor, that’s not a good idea. Not with everything that’s happening.”
“Just for a few hours. I want to see Arlette, have a normal conversation with someone who isn’t carrying a gun or analyzing my marriage like it’s a business transaction.”
Arlette was married to Rafael, so she’d understand, more than anyone, the strains that came with being a Bratva wife.
But Anya clearly didn’t agree, frowning. “Maxim will lose his shit if you leave without telling him.”
“Then I won’t tell him.” The words came out more defiant than I’d intended, but I didn’t take them back. “I’ll take security, I’ll be careful, but I’m not a prisoner, Anya. I’m his wife.”
“In his world, those might be the same thing.”
“Well, in my world, they’re not.”
She was quiet for a long moment, studying my face with those sharp hazel eyes that saw too much. Finally, she sighed. “If I can’t talk you out of this, at least promise me you’ll take Viktor and two others. And you’ll stay in public places.”
“I promise.”
“And Eleanor?” Her voice carried a warning. “Don’t make me regret covering for you. I’ll have to report that you’re running an errand for safety concerns.”
An hour later, I was sliding into the backseat of a sleek Mercedes, flanked by security that looked more like a presidential detail than a shopping escort. Viktor, the head of my protection team, adjusted his rearview mirror to keep me in sight.
“Mrs. Voronov, where would you like to go?”
“The Drake Hotel. I’m meeting a friend for lunch.”
The drive through Chicago felt like emerging from underwater. The city pulsed with life and energy, people hurrying along sidewalks with purpose and freedom I envied. Normal people with normal problems, who didn’t have to worry about Bratva wars or husbands who loved them with bullets instead of words.
Arlette was waiting in the hotel’s elegant restaurant, her perfectly styled blonde hair catching the afternoon light streaming through tall windows. She looked like everything I used to be: polished, privileged, blissfully unaware of the darkness that lurked in the spaces between respectability and reality. Except that wasn’t quite true. She was familiar with the shades of gray that characterized our world.
“Eleanor!” She stood to embrace me, her smile bright and genuine. “You look…different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Sharper, maybe? Like you’ve been tempered by fire.” Her smile softened now, a bit sad. “I know what that’s like.”
We settled into our seats, and I found myself drinking in the normalcy of it all. The clink of silverware against china, the murmur of polite conversation, the simple pleasure of choosing what to eat from a menu instead of having meals appear like magic.
“So,” Arlette said once we’d ordered, “tell me everything. And I mean everything. The wedding photos Rafael posted weregorgeous, but they looked more like a mafia summit than a celebration.”
“That’s because it basically was.”
She laughed, thinking I was joking. “Come on, seriously. What’s married life like? Is he treating you well?”
How could I explain that my husband protected me like I was made of glass while simultaneously keeping me at arm’s length like I was a loaded weapon? That he’d kill for me but wouldn’t let me close enough to comfort him after his nightmares?
“It’s complicated,” I said finally.
“All marriages are complicated. But do you love him?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. “Yes. God help me, yes.”
