Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(122)

It takes a moment for those words to sink in. Anthony worked for Misha. No. No way. Does not compute.

I shake my head. “You’re lying.”

“And you’re very talented,” he snaps. “I figured you would have broken character by now.”

“I’m not doing a character!” I cry out in frustration. “I had no clue Anthony was working for you. We had a business together, remember? I thought he was focused on that. I thought that was where our money was coming from. I had no clue—”

“I should have fucking known,” he growls, cutting me off. “You didn’t even breathe a word about protection the night we were together.”

“You didn’t, either!” I exclaim. “Why is it my responsibility to think of protection? Why didn’t you pull out a condom?”

“It was an oversight on my part,” he says coldly. “But now, I see that it was calculated on yours.”

Tears blurs my vision. I feel the lump in my throat getting bigger and bigger.

Great. Now, I’m crying—which he’s probably going to think is an act, too. Mama always used to call them “crocodile tears.” Stop lying to me with those crocodile tears. You won’t fool me, you little bitch. But they weren’t fake then, and they aren’t fake now.

“I… I don’t… You’re insane,” I splutter, not sure if I’m even making sense. “I wasn’t lying about any of it. I—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Anthony showing up to your lunch with Nikita then?” Misha demands.

“You kept it a secret because you had something to hide. You wanted to get close to me, so that you could hurt me.”

I shake my head. “Why would I want to hurt you?”

The answer is that I wouldn’t, Misha. Because I love you. Even now, I love you. Which is the only reason this could possibly hurt as much as it does.

God, how I wish I was brave enough to say those words out loud.

“Because you’re being paid to,” Misha snarls at me. “Because you and your fucking boyfriend stand to get a massive payout at the end of this.”

“That’s not true!”

“Then why two accounts?” he roars, his eyes glowing from within like hot coals. “You told me you needed to keep funds in a private account to feel secure. I accepted it. But now, I find out there’s a second account you’re transferring money into. The lie unravels there, Paige. It falls to fucking pieces.”

I want to protest, to make him see, but I just can’t find the right words. I feel completely deflated, completely drained. My side is hurting and so is my head. It’s making it hard to think straight.

“I—The second account—I transferred money to my parents.”

“The same parents who made your life hell growing up?” he scoffs. “The same parents you ran from over a decade ago? The same parents you haven’t had contact with in years? Ah, yes, of course, that makes so much sense. What a fucking saint of a daughter you are.”

I can feel the tears sliding down my cheeks now. I know that the more I try to stop them, the harder they’re going to come. So I just abandon the effort and cry—silently, miserably, hopelessly.

“There’s no point in the theatrics anymore, Paige. I see you clearly now. I see you for who you truly are. A con artist, a liar, and a thief. I shouldn’t have expected anything different to come out of that godforsaken trailer park.”

The words slice me like knives, cutting deeper than I would have thought possible. I feel myself shutting down out of pure self-preservation. He’ll kill me with those words if I’m not careful. He’ll gut me and let my soul bleed out in this pale, lifeless hospital ward.

And he’s not even done yet.

“Where the rest of the world is concerned, we are husband and wife. Until the results of the paternity test come back,” he continues heartlessly.

“We’re just going to pretend?” I rasp.

“This was never about love. Not for me, anyway.” I flinch violently at those words, but he keeps going like he doesn't notice or doesn’t care. I’m not sure which of those options is worse. “I hoped for a cordial relationship with you, but that no longer seems viable.”

It takes every bit of strength I have to force words through the emotion clogging my throat. “But when the results come back—”

“If the paternity test proves that I am the father of those babies, then you will remain in my home and

under my protection.”

Traitorous hope soars inside of me. He’ll believe me. He’ll apologize and things will go back to the way they were… Or, to the way they were headed, at least.

“You will have a comfortable life,” he says. “But it will be separate from mine. You will have your own wing in the house. And you will stay there. I have no intention of sleeping with you ever again.

No intention of ever sharing a bed with you. But I am a reasonable man. After the children are born, you will be free to fuck whomever you want. Simply because I don’t give a shit.”

My shoulders slump. I search his face for any indication that he might be bluffing. Because if he isn’t, that means it’s truly over between us.

“You don’t mean that.”