Page 40 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
The next evening, I recruited Anya to help me create something that would be impossible for Maxim to ignore or dismiss. We spent the afternoon cooking, turning the formal dining room into something that looked like a scene from a romantic movie.
Candles flickered on every surface, casting warm light that made the crystal glasses sparkle. I’d chosen a playlist of jazz standards, the kind of music that made everything feel more intimate. The table was set with the good china, cloth napkins, and flowers from the garden arranged in a simple but elegant centerpiece.
The meal itself was ambitious for someone who usually survived on takeout and coffee. Pan-seared duck breast with cherry gastrique, roasted vegetables that looked like they belonged in a magazine, and a chocolate dessert that had taken me three attempts to get right.
When Maxim walked into the dining room at eight o’clock sharp, I saw surprise flicker across his features before the careful mask settled back into place.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“Dinner. You know, that thing married people do together sometimes.”
He took his seat across from me, and I poured wine into his glass, trying to ignore the way his eyes tracked my movements. We ate in relative silence for the first few minutes, the only sounds the clink of silverware against china and the soft jazz playing in the background.
“This is incredible,” he said finally, gesturing to his plate. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Like what?”
It was the first real question he’d asked me in weeks, and I felt a spark of hope. “Like the fact that I’m secretly addicted to reality TV. Or that I can’t sleep without white noise. Or that I’ve never been to Europe, even though half my fabric suppliers are based there.”
“We could change that,” he said quietly. “The Europe thing.”
“Could we? Because lately it feels like the only traveling you’re interested in is from the bedroom to your office and back again.”
The words came out sharper than I’d intended, but I was tired of pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.
Maxim set down his fork, his jaw tightening slightly. “Eleanor….”
“Don’t. Don’t give me some bullshit excuse about work or security or whatever other reason you’ve invented to keep me at arm’s length.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks pretty fucking simple. We had one night where things felt real, and ever since then, you’ve been treating me like I’m made of glass. Or like I’m something dangerous you need to keep contained.”
“Maybe you are dangerous.”
The admission hung between us, raw and honest in a way that made my chest tight.
“Dangerous how?”
He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers toying with the stem of his wine glass. When he finally looked at me, there was something in his eyes that made my breath catch.
“You make me want things I can’t have.”
“Like what?”
“Like a life that isn’t built on violence and revenge. Like the ability to be the kind of man who deserves someone like you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I felt tears prick at my eyes. “Maxim….”
“You should hate me,” he continued, his voice quiet but intense. “You should be planning your escape, counting the days until you can get away from the monster who destroyed your life. Instead, you’re cooking me dinner and asking me about my day like we’re some normal couple with a normal marriage.”
“Maybe because that’s what I want us to be.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You keep saying that, but you never explain why.”
