Page 76 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
But the one person whose presence would have meant everything had been notably absent.
My pencil moved across the page in angry strokes, sketching out designs that looked more like weapons than clothing. Sharp angles, aggressive lines, the kind of fashion that could cut someone who got too close. Fitting, considering my current mood.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made my spine stiffen. I didn’t look up when the door opened, didn’t acknowledge the familiar weight of his presence filling the space. Let him wonder why his wife was giving him the cold shoulder. Let him figure out for himself that some things mattered more than whatever shadowy business had kept him away.
“Eleanor.”
I kept sketching. A sleeve that looked like a blade. A neckline that suggested violence.
“The show was incredible. Every review I’ve read calls it a masterpiece.”
“How would you know? You weren’t there.”
The hurt in my voice was sharper than I’d intended, cutting through the air between us like broken glass. I hated how much his absence had affected me, hated that I still craved his approval and support despite everything I’d accomplished on my own.
Maxim was quiet for a moment, and I could feel him studying me, probably trying to calculate the best approach to defuse the situation. Good fucking luck with that. I was past the point where pretty words and strategic apologies could fix what was broken.
“I particularly liked the sheer silk piece from your evening collection. The one with blood-red beadwork along the neckline. Very bold choice, using garnet stones to create that gradient effect.”
My head whipped around so fast I nearly dropped my sketchbook. He was leaning against the doorframe, still in his dark clothes, his gray eyes reflecting that familiar smirk that suggested he knew something I didn’t.
“What did you just say?”
“The silk piece. With the beadwork.” He pushed off from the doorframe, moving toward me with that predatory grace that made my pulse quicken despite my anger. “The way you designed the stones to catch the light, to look like actual drops of blood. It was stunning.”
“How the fuck do you know about that piece?”
He was close enough now that I could smell his cologne, could see the slight stubble along his jaw that meant he’d been working late. Close enough that every instinct I had was screaming at me to close the distance between us, to forget my anger and wrap myself around him like I always did.
Instead, I gripped my wine glass tighter and glared at him.
“Answer me, Maxim.”
He knelt beside my chair, his expression shifting from smug to something softer, more genuine. His knuckles brushed against my cheek, and despite everything, I found myself leaning into the touch.
“I was there,” he said quietly. “In the shadows, but I was there.”
The words hit me like ice water. “What?”
“I watched your entire show, Eleanor. Every moment, every design, every second of your triumph. You were magnificent.”
“But you said….” I stared at him, confusion replacing anger as my brain tried to process this information. “You said you couldn’t come. You said business was more important.”
“I said I couldn’t attend openly. There’s a difference.”
“Why?” The question came out as barely a whisper. “Why the secrecy? Why make me think you’d chosen work over supporting me?”
Maxim’s expression grew serious, and I caught a flash of something that looked like guilt in his eyes. He stood up, pacing to the window and staring out at the city lights below.
“Promise me something first.”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t get shocked or sad about what I’m about to tell you.”
Ice formed in my stomach. Whatever he was about to say, whatever truth he’d been hiding, I already knew I wasn’t going to like it.
“Maxim….”
