Page 23 of Crimson Sin
But the lines are blurring now, the boundaries smudging until I can't tell where pretend ends and reality begins.
What if this marriage were real?The thought slips in before I can stop it. I imagine waking up beside him every morning. Sharing coffee and conversation instead of contracts and strategies. Kisses given freely rather than for show. A partnership built on genuine feelings rather than mutual necessity.
Would he be different in a real relationship? Would that carefully maintained control give way to something softer, more open? Would I get to see the man he truly is?
Or is this desire just another tool in his arsenal? Another calculated move from a man who's always ten steps ahead of everyone else. The possibility hurts more than it should. I barely know him, yet the thought that his response to me might be manufactured feels like betrayal.
The questions multiply, each one leading to three more. I don't have answers for any of them. How can I when I don't even understand my own feelings? When did this stop being about the exhibit and start being about him? When did I start wanting more than what we agreed upon?
Sleep finally claims me, but it's restless and filled with dreams. Dreams where the garden arch becomes a bedroom. Where his hands don't stop at appropriate boundaries. Where the words we didn't speak tonight tumble from his lips in the darkness.
I wake several times throughout the night, reaching across the bed for warmth that isn't there. Each time, the disappointment cuts deeper. And when I wake the next morning, the sunlight spilling across the sheets is too bright and cheerful. It’s at odds with the confusion lodged deep in my chest.
The pillow beside me is empty. The room is quiet. And I'm still no closer to knowing what's real.
8
NAOMI
The morning light peaks through velvet curtains in soft golden ribbons, painting the room in honeyed warmth that feels utterly at odds with the chill twisting in my stomach. I wake slowly, consciousness returning like a tide over sand, the sheets clinging to my skin like a second whisper of last night. My body aches in places I don't want to name, not from physical touch, but from tension. From longing left unresolved. From kisses that should have never happened, and the hunger they stirred so easily.
I roll onto my back and stare at the coffered ceiling above me, each panel carved with intricate rosettes that seem to mock the simplicity I crave. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks with metronomic precision, marking seconds that feel like hours. My heart still pounds with residual adrenaline from dreams I can't quite remember, fragments of ice-gray eyes and whispered words that dissolved the moment I tried to grasp them.
I sit up and run a hand through my tangled hair, the auburn strands catching on my fingers like delicate thread. The room is silent. I listen for footsteps in the hall, voices in the distance, and any sign that this massive estate holds more life than justmy own uncertain breathing. Nothing. Only the faint creak of the old bones settling and the birds outside the window remind me that the world hasn't stopped just because I feel like it has.
The mahogany nightstand beside me gleams in the morning light, its surface bare except for a crystal water glass and a folded card that makes my pulse skip. It’s a note on cream-colored paper stock so expensive it practically whispers wealth.
“Had business to attend to. Breakfast is waiting downstairs. Rest.”
No greeting or acknowledgment of what passed between us in the shadows of last night. No sign of what those kisses meant, if they meant anything at all.
I press the card between my fingers and stare at it like it might bleed a hidden message if I hold it long enough. The letters are pressed deep into the paper with the confidence of a man who never second-guesses his words. Then I toss it on the duvet and push myself to my feet, bare toes sinking into carpet so plush it feels like I’m walking on clouds.
The adjoining bathroom is a temple to luxury, all white marble and gold fixtures that gleam like captured sunlight. I splash cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the lingering heat of dreams and the confusion they left behind. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, brown eyes wide with uncertainty, lips still faintly swollen from kisses that should have been forgotten by now.
I find a silk robe hanging on the back of the door, midnight blue with intricate embroidery along the collar and cuffs. It swallows my petite frame, the hem pooling around my ankles as I tie thesash tight around my waist. The fabric whispers against my skin as I move, a luxury I'm still learning to navigate.
The estate is quiet as I move through the halls, barefoot, following corridors that seem to stretch forever. The scent of coffee drifts toward me, warm and rich and achingly familiar. It reminds me of mornings in my tiny apartment, of simple pleasures and uncomplicated choices. I follow it like a trail, hoping it might lead to some clarity in this maze of marble and mystery.
The dining room is massive, three times the size of my childhood kitchen back in Driggs. At the head of the table closest to me, a solitary place setting waits. A silver tray sits there, steel-domed and accompanied by a fresh pot of coffee that steams invitingly, a delicate china cup painted with forget-me-nots, and a single white rose in a crystal bud vase. The flower is perfect, each petal flawless, but somehow it feels more like a marker than a gift.
I pour the coffee first, needing the ritual more than the caffeine. The tiny blue flowers on the cup remind me of summer fields and simpler times. The warmth soaks into my palms as I sip, and for a brief moment, I let the silence fill me instead of fighting it. The coffee is perfect, rich and smooth with just a hint of vanilla that suggests care and attention to detail.
The food beneath the silver dome is untouched. Croissants that flake at the slightest touch, fresh fruit arranged like a still life painting, eggs Benedict with hollandaise that gleams like golden custard. There's enough here to feed three people, an elegant peace offering that somehow feels more like a statement, or perhaps a dismissal.
I pick at a strawberry, the sweetness bursting across my tongue, but my appetite has fled. The dining room feels too empty. Thesilence hums against my eardrums until I can hear my own heartbeat, steady but uncertain.
I don't get far into breakfast before I sense a prickle at the back of my neck that has nothing to do with drafts or ghosts. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. Every nerve ending suddenly comes alive, hyperaware of the space around me and the shadows that pool in the corners and doorways. I glance up and he's already there.
Viktor.
Leaning casually in the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the frame. He's dressed in blue slacks that fit him perfectly and a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, like he rolled out of bed and straight into mischief. His light brown hair is perfectly tousled, not a strand out of place despite the casual disarray. But it's his eyes that still my breath, steel-blue and cold. They lock on mine and hold with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“Well, good morning,” he drawls, pushing off from the doorframe and stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation. His voice is smooth as liquid gold, polished like the silver cufflinks that wink at his wrists. But every word holds a sharp edge, shattering the stillness of morning like glass beneath a heel. “I didn't think I'd find you alone.”
My fingers tighten around the delicate handle of my coffee cup. “Good morning,” I reply, forcing politeness into my tone despite the way my pulse has started to race. “Daniil's out.”
“I gathered,” he responds, settling into the chair directly across from mine without asking permission. The movement reminds me of a cat that's spotted something interesting to play with. “Imagine my surprise.”
