Page 51 of Crimson Sin
I nod once. “She was mine. Before any of this. Before the throne. Before I became what I am.” The words taste like rust and regret. “We were engaged. She had dreams of opening an art gallery and traveling to Europe to study the masters. She wanted us to disappear together, start fresh somewhere the Zorin name meant nothing.”
Naomi's hand moves to her throat, as if she can feel the pain of what I am confessing. “What happened?”
“A rival family planted a bomb in the car. She never stood a chance.” The clinical words cannot capture the horror of that day, the way her death reduced everything beautiful in the world to ash and twisted metal. “She was supposed to surprise me with lunch from our favorite place. Took my keys, kissed my cheek, and promised she would be back within the hour. I was in a meeting when the call came. By the time I reached the scene, there was nothing left but debris and smoke.”
Her hand trembles slightly where it rests on her leg. I can see her processing this revelation, understanding finally why that room exists and remains locked against intrusion. “And you kept her alive in there.”
“Yes.” I don't deny it. There is no point in pretending anymore. “Because letting go felt like betrayal. Forgetting her was unthinkable. And I was too much of a coward to face what her death turned me into. That room holds everything she touched, everything she created, and proof that she existed. Her paintings, letters, even her clothes that still smell like her perfume. I couldn't bear to disturb any of it.”
I wait for her to recoil from my confession and finally see me for the broken creature I truly am. Instead, her gaze holds mine, unwavering and somehow stronger than before.
“You're not a coward.”
“You don't know what I am.” My voice drops low and dangerous. “You see the man in front of you, but not the monster beneath. The things I did after she died, the people I destroyed in the name of revenge. If Viktor touches you, if anyone touches you, I will burn this city to the ground. And then what will you think of me?”
She doesn't look away. She rises, crosses the space between us, and kneels at my side. Her hand rests against my chest, feeling the thunder beneath my ribs. “I'll think you're a man who lost too much already. And a man who won't lose me, too.”
Her words shatter the final wall that has been holding back the flood. I pull her into my lap, her warmth chasing away the chill that has lived inside me for years. She fits against me perfectly, as if she were designed to fill the hollow space Sasha's death carved into my chest. She tilts her face up, and when I kiss her, it is not hunger that drives me. It is desperation. Grief and desire tangled until I can no longer tell one from the other.
The light from the desk lamp dances across her skin as her body presses closer, her lips parting beneath mine with a quiet gasp. My hand slides through her hair, tugging her head back gently so I can trace her throat with my mouth, tasting the pulse that beats there like a drum. She clings to me, soft yet unyielding, her nails pressing into my shoulders as if to anchor me here with her.
I carry her to the sofa, laying her back against the cushions. Her breath is quick, her eyes dark and mirroring my own need. I kiss her again, slower this time, memorizing every sigh, every tremor, and wordless plea.
Tonight is not about dominance or control. It is not about staking a claim. Tonight is about grief and hope colliding and finding something worth holding onto when the world is built to take everything away. Her hands frame my face as if she knows and sees through every mask I have ever worn. And when her lips brush mine again, I let the ghosts fall silent at last. For once, I am not plotting, planning, or watching for betrayal. I am simply here with her in my arms. For the first time in years, I am not haunted. I am home.
18
NAOMI
I wake to the cool hush of silence. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cold, as though Daniil has been gone for hours. Again.
I stare at the imprint his body left behind, faint and fading. The night before still burns in my memory, the way his hands claimed me, the rare softness in his eyes, and the raw edge in his voice when he whispered things I never thought he was capable of saying. It was more than lust, more than possession. I felt him let me in, if only for a sliver of time.
And yet, here I am, alone. I sit up, pulling the sheet to my chest, my eyes tracing the ceiling's intricate molding, trying to pretend I don't feel hollow. But I do. The hollow that makes you wonder if the person you gave a piece of yourself to regrets taking it.
The clock on the nightstand ticks steadily forward, indifferent to the way my world has tilted. I drag myself out of bed, slipping into a soft cotton dress I'd left hanging over the chair. The fabric falls gently against my skin, comfortable and familiar, nothing like the turmoil within me.
What happens when the will is settled? When Viktor is dealt with? Does Daniil erase me from his life, the way he slips from this bed before the sun rises? The thought settles in my chest like stone.
I try to lose myself in work, answering emails, reviewing notes for the exhibit from the laptop perched on the desk by the window. The museum team has been tireless, and though the agreement I made with Daniil secured the funding, the vision is mine. Hours blur into days, the mansion becoming sanctuary and cage, until at last, the moment I've been waiting for arrives. Opening night.
The exhibit I've dreamed about since grad school is the one chance I have to prove myself, not just as an intern, but as a curator. My name is on the banners, my research in the glossy brochures, and my choices displayed in the glass cases under golden lights.
I should feel elated. Instead, there's a sharp ache in my chest as I step into the gown Charlotte helped me pick. It’s a vintage-inspired emerald piece that hugs my waist and drapes elegantly to the floor. The silk whispers against my skin as I move, a soft caress that does nothing to quiet the unrest beneath. I adjust the neckline one final time in the mirror, watching my reflection with critical eyes. The woman staring back at me looks poised, confident, and ready to command a room full of Chicago's cultural elite. But I see the truth in my gaze. The uncertainty and the longing for someone who should be here but isn't.
Cameras flash as soon as I arrive at the museum entrance, but my smile feels like porcelain. Perfect, polished, and breakable. All because Daniil isn't here. The man who made this possible and invaded my life. The man I can't stop wanting, no matter how much his absence feels like a wound.
Charlotte links her arm through mine as we walk in together, radiant in a sequined gown that glitters like starlight. Her presence grounds me, familiar and warm in a world that suddenly feels too bright, too loud, and too much. “Naomi Carter, the woman of the hour,” she teases, though her eyes soften when she looks at me. “You should be glowing right now. Instead, you look like someone kicked your puppy.”
I laugh under my breath, but it sounds hollow even to me. “I'm just tired.”
“Bullshit,” she responds without hesitation. “Is this fake marriage destroying you?”
Her bluntness slices straight through me. I shake my head quickly, forcing another smile as cameras click. “No. I'm fine, Char.”
But deep down, I know she's right. The high of success is hollow without Daniil beside me.
The museum transforms before my eyes as we enter the main gallery. Soft golden lighting bathes the carefully curated pieces, each artifact positioned to tell a story that spans centuries. Crystal glasses clink as donors and patrons move through the space, their conversations a gentle hum that mingles with the classical quartet playing in the corner. Everything is exactly as I envisioned it. The culmination of months of research, planning, and sleepless nights. My dreams made manifest in glass, gold, and ancient beauty.
