He needs a wife. I need revenge.
To the world, Maxim Belov is a self-made billionaire with charm as deep as his pockets. But strip away the politician's smile and crisp Armani suits, and you'll find the puppetmaster commanding Moscow's underworld-th...
KIRA Sunlight seeps into the room, its rays piercing through the open curtains
in sharp, golden streaks. I reluctantly open one eyelid, confirming Maxim is
no longer in the bed, before opening my eyes fully.
Before going to sleep, I built a pillow barrier between us to maintain
some semblance of personal space, a feeble line of defense in a situation
where I felt utterly defenseless. The barrier did its job because I had no
sense of Maxim beside me. I thankfully fell asleep well before he turned in.
Slipping out of the stupidly comfortable bed, the first thing I notice is a
note on the nightstand beside where I sleep.
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Charming. As if I needed another reminder of the gem I married. My
restful night's sleep is now a distant memory, replaced by a wave of
irritation.
I make my way to the bathroom and take in my reflection in the mirror.
I look disheveled. My hair is a rat's nest after that asshole drenched me in
ice-cold water and then chased me through the corridors of his mansion.
With the first few buttons of Maxim's oversized dress shirt undone, it looks
like I had a lot more fun last night than I actually did.
I may not have had fun, but I nearly had an orgasm. I blame it on the
heightened tension and nerves. Not on the thread of desire that unspooled
when Maxim chased me through his house, forced his leg between my
thighs, and—
Nope. Stopping that thought right there. Instead, I focus on my sour
mood as I enter the glamorous walk-in closet and confirm that Nadya did,
in fact, get rid of most of my wardrobe. Some of the clothes I purchased
with Liza remain, but that’s pretty much it.
Maxim’s side of the closet is exactly what one would expect from a
control freak. Designer suits hang in neat rows by shade. Next to them are
racks of crisply pressed dress shirts in whites, blacks, and muted colors,
organized with an attention to detail that borders on obsessive. The far end
is dedicated to a collection of leather shoes, from Oxfords to loafers, each
pair polished to a sheen and all looking more expensive than my entire
wardrobe. Definitely signs of an obsessive-compulsive personality.
Not that it comes as a surprise. But it does give me an idea. I'm alone,
surrounded by Maxim’s personal belongings. Maybe he has a diary or a
calendar covering the dates of Masha’s death? I still can’t decide if his
being in Japan is relevant or not. Either way, I’d like to know what I’m
dealing with.
Yanking open the top drawer of his mahogany dresser, I find neatly
folded rows of monogrammed handkerchiefs organized by color. The next drawer down is the same story. His ties are displayed in an array that rivals
a color wheel, with everything from deep burgundies to cool silvers.
Without further thought, I dip my hand into the drawer and mess up the
ties, mixing up the meticulously arranged colors. This way, he’ll think I’m
fucking with him rather than purposefully snooping.
I go for the bottom of the drawer next, groping along and looking for
anything that’s not a handkerchief. I come up empty. My search continues
—opening drawers, flipping through rows of stacked shirts, and scanning
shelves—seeking anything that could be revealing. It’s strange that I
haven’t come across any personal items somewhere here. A journal, a stray
condom packet, a picture of his mistress… Anything.
I’m giving up hope when I open the bottom dresser drawer. There, I find
perfectly organized socks in various shades of black and gray. Reaching
out, I give the contents a little stir, and that’s when my fingers brush against
something that is definitely not a sock. It feels like a flimsy piece of plastic.
I pull it out, revealing a faded polaroid. In it is a little boy, no more than
four or five, with tousled dark hair and eyes that are unmistakably familiar.
They're Maxim's eyes.
This must be Maxim as a child. He’s grinning, looking like any
ordinary, carefree kid, a front tooth missing, dirt smeared across his sweet
round cheeks. It’s a stark contrast to the cold, impenetrable man he is today.
Who was he before the world turned him into the man I married? What
happened?
I doubt I'll ever find out.
_________________________________________ There ya go chapter ten is completed. I think I made 3 to 4 chapters today? I'm not sure but I'mlazy.
