Page 29 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
The blindfold came off as we pulled through wrought iron gates that looked like they could stop a tank. I blinked in the afternoon sunlight, my eyes adjusting to reveal something that made my breath catch in my throat.
The mansion sprawled before us like something out of a gothic fairy tale. Dark stone and soaring windows, ivy climbing the walls in carefully controlled patterns. It wasn’t just expensive. It was imposing, intimate, and somehow alive. Like it had been watching and waiting for decades.
“Jesus,” I breathed.
Maxim glanced at me as the car rolled to a stop in the circular drive. “Not what you expected?”
“I expected a fortress. This is….” I searched for words that wouldn’t sound stupid. “This is a home.”
Something flickered across his face, too quick to identify. “It’s been in my family for three generations.”
The front door was massive, carved oak that probably weighed more than my car. It opened before we reached it, revealing a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing.
“Mrs. Kowalski,” Maxim said by way of introduction. “She runs the house.”
“Congratulations on your marriage, Mrs. Voronov.” Her accent was thick, Eastern European, and her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely sure congratulations were in order.
Mrs. Voronov. The name hit me like a physical blow, a reminder that I was no longer Eleanor Beaumont. I was someone else now, someone I didn’t understand yet.
“Thank you,” I managed.
The interior was just as stunning as the exterior. Soaring ceilings, original artwork, furniture that looked like it belongedin a museum. But there were personal touches too. Family photos on side tables, fresh flowers in crystal vases, books that had actually been read.
“I’ll show you to your room,” Maxim said.
“Our room?”
He paused on the stairs, one hand on the polished banister. “Your room. I’m not expecting you to share my bed just because we signed some papers.”
I should have been relieved. Should have thanked him for maintaining some boundaries in this fucked up situation. Instead, I felt something that might have been disappointment.
My room was on the second floor, down a hallway lined with portraits of stern-faced men and elegant women. The Voronov family tree, I assumed. Generations of people who’d lived and died in this house.
The bedroom was gorgeous. King-sized bed with silk sheets, walk-in closet already filled with clothes in my size, French doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking manicured gardens.
“How long have you been planning this?” I asked, running my fingers over a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary.
“Planning what?”
“All of this. The clothes, the room, knowing exactly what size I wear and what designers I prefer.” I turned to face him. “You’ve been watching me for months, haven’t you?”
He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. “It’s called research.”
“It’s called stalking.”
“Potato, potahto.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled. Almost. “So what happens now? Do I get to leave this room, or am I still your prisoner?”
“You’re my wife. This is your home now. You can go wherever you want within the grounds.”
“How generous.”
“Don’t push it, Eleanor.”
After he left, I stood on the balcony and tried to process what my life had become. Just days ago, I’d been Eleanor Beaumont, struggling fashion designer with daddy issues and a small but growing business. Now I was Eleanor Voronov, wife to a Bratva facilitator, living in a mansion that looked like it had secrets buried in its foundation.
I remembered my vow from the wedding. If Maxim thought he could just park me in this gilded cage and forget about me, he had another thing coming.
