Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(104)

I’m not sacrificing my pride just because I made a stupid mistake in a moment of vulnerability.”

Heat rises in my face. “You think you made a mistake?”

She shakes her head, and a tear slips free. She tries to wipe it away, but I catch it before she turns away. “What does it matter now? It’s done. We’re married. I’m pregnant. The die has been cast…”

She takes a shuddering breath and turns to me. “But that doesn’t mean I will just stay silent and content within your high walls while you go around town fucking every other—”

I step forward and catch her arm. “I’m not interested in turning you into my mother, Paige.”

Or in fucking anyone else, for that matter.

“That son of a bitch was getting in your space and—”

“You wanted to play the big, bad, conquering hero,” she finishes. “I’m not some damsel in distress, Misha. I can take care of myself. The first time a man hit on me, I was thirteen years old and he was at least twenty years older. Probably more. He put his hand on my thigh and slid it all the way up. It took me a second, but I grabbed the pen that was on the table between us and jammed it right into his wrist.” Her eyes are watery, but her voice doesn’t shake. “To this day, no one knows that story. I didn’t even tell Clara.”

“Why?”

That question seems to catch her off-guard. “Why? What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“She was your best friend. You told her everything. Why wouldn’t you tell her?” I ask.

“I… That… That wasn’t the point of the story,” she says evasively.

She pulls her hand out from underneath mine and turns away. Just in case I didn’t already think there was something about that story she was not telling me.

“No, but it’s the question I’m asking.”

She throws me an angry glare. “I don’t owe you any explanations, Misha. It’s not like you’re interested in giving me any. We’re not partners, are we? We’re not even friends. I’m a glorified baby oven.”

“A baby oven in a thousand-dollar dress.”

“Now is not the time for jokes.”

“It wasn’t a joke; it’s an observation,” I say. “And if you’re not interested in answering that question, then answer this one: are you really comfortable in that dress?”

I can see the conflict raging in her head. Is she going to cop to the truth or stick with the lie?

In the end, she groans loudly. “No. It’s digging into my rib cage.”

I twist her around and pull down the zipper, freeing her from the glittery bondage. “There. Better?”

She sighs with relief. “Yes. A little.”

She slips off the dress, and I have to look away just to avoid another erection. Behind me, she shuffles into the dressing room. I hear the rustle of fabric and another happy murmur of satisfaction.

I wait until she emerges from the dressing room in her silk robe. She seems to have calmed down some. I’m not sure why, but I liked it better when she was angry.

“The wedding is in three days,” she says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I’m freaking out a little bit.”

“Just remember that we’re already married. The wedding is only for show.”

She sighs. “Just like everything else.”





79

PAIGE

“Hello? Who is this?”

The sound of my mother’s voice again after so long feels surreal. As if standing here in my wedding gown wasn’t surreal enough.

I feel the tears pressing at the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to cry. I have a full face of makeup on, and Nikita will kill me if I ruin it.

“Whoever this is, stop wasting my fuckin’ time,” she rasps.

“Jillian,” I finally manage. “Is this Jillian Masters?”

I was about to say “Mom,” but somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to form the word.

“Yeah, this is Jillian. Who the hell’s asking?”

She doesn’t recognize my voice. How is it possible that her voice can stir up such visceral memories, and she doesn’t even recognize mine?

“Who. Is. This?” she repeats with irritation. “I got noodles in the microwave.”

It’s like time has stood still in the decade I’ve been away. I’m a little girl again, speechless and terrified. “This is…”

It seems like a simple thing to say your name. To identify yourself. Especially to your own mother.

“You slow or something?” Jillian barks.

“I’m Fay Donohue,” I say, the name falling easily from my lips. “I’m your daughter’s accountant.”

“Accountant?” she repeats as though that’s the only thing about that sentence that jumps out at her.

“Yes. For your daughter, Paige.” I feel the need to clarify. To say my name aloud to her, even if it’s buried inside of a lie.

There’s a long beat of silence. I think she might hang up. Then: “I ain’t seen that girl in years. She dead or something?” She doesn’t sound too broken up about the possibility.

My eyes fly open. “What?”