Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(100)

“Paige will be a good mother.”

“I have no doubt,” Cyrille says with certainty. “She’s kind and caring. She’s generous with that big

heart of hers. Ilya already loves her. So do I.”

“Is this the part where you curse me out for canceling the dinner plans we had tonight?” I ask, trying to sound detached from it all. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”

“It may have started out as a marriage of convenience, Misha. But it could become something more—

if you just give it a chance.”

“Our arrangement works perfectly as it is.”

She grits her teeth and shakes her head. “When did you become such an idiot? For some insane reason, Paige has feelings for you. And call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure you have feelings for her, too.”

“You know, I’m getting really sick of people telling me how I feel.”

“I’m not people,” she lashes out. “I’m family. I have a right to advise you when you’re being a stubborn, stupid ass!”

“Maybe that’s why I’ve kept my distance the last few months. I’m not interested in being judged or advised.”

“Okay. Fine. Suit yourself.” She backs away, her expression closed off and steely. She walks down the stairs while I stew in my guilt.

Just before she gets into the waiting car, she looks back over her shoulder. “Just know that your place will always be set at family dinners. In case you ever change your mind.”





75

PAIGE

I wake up thinking about my mother and father.

For the first time in years, I don’t shove the thought of them away. I let it linger. I let myself wonder.

Are they still in Corden Park? Are they still together? Are they even still alive?

Dad would only be in his early fifties and Mom mid-forties, even though she tried to be secretive about her age. Numbers-wise, not so old. But their chosen lifestyles are hard on a human body. There are no guarantees in life, especially not in theirs.

Suddenly, I jolt up in my bed. In my room.

Which is weird—because I didn’t fall asleep here last night. Cyrille and I were downstairs in the living room.

Before I can even wonder how I got here, the bathroom door opens and Misha walks out. He’s wearing nothing but a white towel around his waist and dark, wet hair. My heart flutters girlishly at the sight of him. I immediately avert my gaze.

Not good. Not good. Not good.

“Did you carry me up here last night?”

He doesn’t look at me when he answers. “Cyrille left. There was no sense in leaving you on the couch.”

On the couch, a.k.a., surrounded by the evidence of the pity party I threw myself last night. I secretly hope Cyrille trashed the ice cream and cookie dough wrappers before she left. The last thing I want Misha to think is that I needed to be comforted after he stood me up.

“About last night. Something—”

“Something came up,” I finish for him. “Yeah. You said that in your text.”

He turns and observes me casually, arms folded over his bare chest. I slide out of bed and tug up the sheets on my side. His side is still tucked in, untouched, cold.

“You’re upset,” he deduces.

Genius, this one.

“No. Why would I be upset?” I ask. “It wasn’t like it was meant to be a special dinner or anything.

We don’t have those, do we? They’re probably against the rules.”

My slide into sarcasm is dangerously close to turning into a full-blown venting session, so I cut myself off and vigorously tuck the sheets under the mattress.

“You don’t have to make the bed. Rada will—”

“I can make my own bed, Misha,” I snap. “I’ve been doing it my whole life. No reason to stop now.”

“The reason to stop now is that you have a maid to make your bed for you.”

I turn to him with a frown. “I’ve always made my bed and I’m always going to. I’m going to teach my baby to do the same.”

He shrugs. “If that’s what you want.”

“You’re not going to object?”

“You’re the child’s mother. In certain matters, I’ll defer to you.”

I should take some comfort in that— hip hip hooray, I’ll actually be in charge of something— but somehow, it leaves me feeling hollow instead. Maybe because he’s approaching parenting like it’s a business enterprise. He’s delegating duties. The nursery walls will probably be hung with org charts and motivational posters.

“Is that your way of telling me that I’ll have to defer to you on other matters?”

“I assumed that was obvious.”

I shake my head. “I know your rulebook is important to you, but there shouldn’t be a ‘veto’ process in child-rearing.”

“Vetoed,” he retorts without smiling.

I resist the urge to whack him with the pillow I’m fluffing. “We have to discuss things together. We have to both make decisions for the baby. Together. When we don’t agree, we’ll have to compromise.”

He blinks like I’m speaking in a foreign language. “I don’t compromise, Paige. When it comes to what school this child attends, the books he reads, his everyday routines, that falls under your jurisdiction.