“Nothing!” I snarl. Why am I so angry? I still don’t know. Or maybe I just can’t admit it, even to myself—a stinging pinch in my chest reveals the answer anyway. Jealousy. Jealousy. Jealousy.
It festers on a million different petty observations. Like how he listened to me pine for a child I’ll never have, while hiding his own. A child connected to him in ways I suspect he’s deliberately not revealing—her mother’s identity, for one. Those eyes, he said in that hollow tone reserved only for those who matter most to him, like his horse Zzazza. I only had to see her face, and I knew. Those eyes…
The mere thought of him withholding something from me hurts in ways I can’t explain. Tears spill from my eyes as I whirl to face him, my voice scathing, “I escaped a marriage with one self-centered asshole. I’ll be damned if I’m jumping into another with someone ten times worse, fake or not. Jim didn’t pretend to be anything other than a prick. So, fuck off, Vadim. I suggest you continue your search for a fake fiancée.”
I turn on my heel and leave him there. Storming into the bedroom, I slam the door behind me so fiercely the sound echoes like a gunshot.
Then I sink onto the bed and cry in earnest, like I haven’t in a very, very long time. Shoulders shaking, voice breaking, full-throttle sobs. It’s a pity party, for sure. I can admit that. But it’s surprisingly painful to go from wanting someone so much—despite every last warning sign—to knowing that it’s better to have nothing to do with him.
And yet still craving him all the same.
Hope can be such a bitch.
Chapter Two
I’ll never forgive myself for who I became during my marriage—a doormat. Not only did Jim completely obliterate my self-esteem, but he convinced me during the process that it was entirely my fault. For so long, I believed that lie…
And one of my promises to myself after the divorce was that no one would hurt me and walk away scot-free ever again. Thus, my list was born—the series of goals I’ve managed to uphold despite a lifetime of failed ambition and broken dreams.
And the most important one? No relationships.
Being spurned by someone like Vadim is exactly what I deserve for forgetting that key vow. For ever forgetting that my needs come first now. Always. While the good lord encouraged forgiveness, the Bible did mention that little thing about an eye for an eye.
Therefore, I intend to gouge out Vadim Gorgoshev’s entirely guilt-free. Step one? I wake up alone and enter the closet with only one goal in mind—finding the most revealing, skin-tight, sluttiest ensemble I can without risking the integrity of my piercing. Screw it. I wear a lacey, see-through bustier and short black tweed skirt that rides up my hips, avoiding pressure on my healing flesh.
Later I’ll reflect on the utter stupidity of letting a virtual stranger pierce my nether regions in the first place. At the moment, revenge is a far more appealing animal. To enhance my look, I leave my hair down and skip a bra entirely.
Mr. Billionaire eat your heart out.
No one will ever again make me feel worthless, as if my only value is at their disposal.
I am a queen. So, I do my makeup in the style of one, and when I finally leave the room, I’m ready for war. Irritatingly, I don’t find my opponent when I venture downstairs. In the kitchen, all I discover is a lone croissant resting on a plate beside a bowl of fresh fruit. As subtle a peace offering that a smug bastard could present without eating crow.
Whatever. I ignore it in favor of scouring the rest of the house in search of him.
I toy with the prospect that he didn’t sleep here at all, ceding this battlefield to me—but then I spot him in the study, slumped over his desk. And a teensy, tiny bit of doubt creeps in, poisoning my heart with…concern. Gone is the calculating, smug businessman. This creature, with his eyes closed and features gaunt, is the epitome of exhaustion.
My fingers twitch rebelliously. Anger takes a backseat for a split second, surrendering to the emotion only he can inspire in me. I have a sudden urge to smooth the hair back from his face and encourage him to go to bed.
I take a step forward… And a tendril of light from the window enhances the planes of his face—and how identical they are to his daughter’s. My anger renewed, I loudly storm back into the kitchen and slam my way through cupboards and drawers until he appears in the doorway, his eyes bloodshot. His gaze settles on my face first, his lips parting. “We need to talk—”
“Or not.” I down a glass of orange juice as I snatch up the croissant and head for the stairs.
He doesn’t follow me, and I spend the rest of the day avoiding him, too terrified that the sight of him may make me break.
And after seven years of cowering, I refuse to break.
Sleep provides only a brief reprieve. As soon as dawn creeps over the horizon, I steal a pair of masculine sweats from the closet and a set of tennis shoes for good measure. Desperate for fresh air, I head downstairs, but I barely make it through the front door before I sense him behind me.
“Where are you going?”
Gosh, he sounds more haggard than yesterday. I turn to face him and once again feel my resolve being tested. His dress shirt is rumpled, suspiciously resembling the one he wore two days ago. His pants are a wrinkled mess, and his hair sticks out at odd angles—no doubt assaulted all night by raking fingers. He looks so tired. So worn.
With difficulty, I flick my gaze from him
