Shattered Crown

CHAPTER TWELVE

MAXIM

I’m juggling a lowball of whiskey in one hand while pressing the phone to
my ear with the other, when the limo pulls up to the curb beside Probka, the
city's hottest new restaurant that I have a majority stake in. It's a favorite
among the city's eager-to-see-and-be-seen socialites, partly due to its
celebrity chef owner, Daria Amelin. It's not my usual choice, but it's exactly
what I need tonight.

"All is set,” Nadya confirms on the other end of the line. “The
restaurant is full, and the press has been notified. No one will miss your
appearance.

I take a sip of my whiskey. Its warmth contrasts with the cool looks Kira
is throwing at me from the opposite seat. When she catches my eye, she
crosses her arms in front of her generous chest and averts her gaze out the
window.

“Did you let Daria know?” I ask Nadya.
“I did, and she’s thrilled.” Nadya pauses, and I know what that pause is
about. My wife. “I still don’t think this is a good idea. She’s still so …
much,” she says with distaste. “Given some time and training from me, I
could mold her into a more suitable wife. Although, I’m afraid she’ll never
be good enough for you.”

And there we have it—no woman will ever be good enough for me in
Nadya’s eyes. She either has me on way too high of a pedestal or she
doesn’t want to have to share the ‘lady of the house’ title with anyone else.
Both, likely. I’ve spoiled her. Ever since Irina, I've kept my home a fortress
—no women, no distractions. My affairs are short, to the point, and never
where I lay my head.
But the idea of molding Kira, now that’s laughable.

I eye my wife carefully. There’s no question she’s a firecracker. Despite
my earlier warning, she’s chosen thigh-high boots with bold stiletto heels.

Yes, her black dress is simple and classic, but on her body it looks ... it
looks smoking hot. It’s not so much the dress I’m thinking about but what’s
underneath it.

Now that I know what she looks like naked—her generous ass, creamy
thighs, her pink tinged nipples—I can’t get the vision out of my mind. It’s
been a full week, and the memory of her bare skin lingers like a constant
torment.

“It’s fine, Nadya,” I say, an edge to my voice. “I’ll take it from here.”
What Nadya fails to grasp is that Kira's youth and beauty are part of her
public appeal. Our mismatch, our age difference—everything—works in
my favor because the press is fascinated by the opposites-attract love story.

Outside the window, the paparazzi are already swarming like vultures
waiting for their moment. Or rather, our moment. It's our first public outing
together, a carefully planned display of post-wedding bliss. Although, from
the expression on Kira’s face, no one is going to believe the bliss part.

“Is that all for us?” she asks, gesturing out the window with a frown.
“It is,” I acknowledge. “Do you think you could try and look happy
when we step outside? Not like I kicked your dog?”

She frowns. “Seriously, why would you even say that? What kind of
person would even think of kicking a dog?”
I huff out a laugh. “A proverbial dog. I wouldn’t kick an actual dog,” I
clarify. I’ve kicked men—done a lot worse to them, in fact—but I have
nothing against animals.

“You’re a modern-day saint.” She scoffs. “Anyhow, don’t worry. I’ll
flash my pearly whites for the cameras.” With a sneer, Kira pastes a smile
so forced it borders on comedic.
One side of my mouth tips up at the corner. “You might want to try
again. Didn’t quite buy it.”
“Chill, okay? I faked it at our wedding. I’ll be fine. Let’s get this over
with.”