Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(135)

“It’s not really his decision; it’s mine.”

“Fair enough.” She sighs. “How are you going to manage working from home, though? Do you have a competent assistant you can trust?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I wanted to hire someone myself, but Misha doesn’t like the idea of random strangers parading through the house. So he told me he’d hire someone for me.”

“Not thrilled about that, are you?” Cyrille points out.

“Not really. But considering he didn’t fight me too hard, I decided to let it go and pick my battles.”

“There we go,” Nikita approves. “That is the kind of give-and-take of a good, healthy relationship.

They should put you two in a textbook.”

I ignore that comment. Nikita is my friend, but she is still Misha’s brother. Deep down, I know she’s rooting for the two of us to reconcile and be together again.

“I’ve also started playing around with ideas for the nursery,” I announce.

Cyrille’s eyes light up. “That’ll definitely keep you busy.”

“I’ve got so many ideas,” I say, laying out my hair tools in a neat line on the bathroom’s marble counter.

“Have you decided on a room?” Cyrille asks.

“The one next door,” I reply. “It’s even got an adjoining door, so it’s perfect.”

“Oh. So… you’re really going to stay in this room permanently?”

“That’s the plan.” It’s painfully obvious that both of them have something to say, but they’re holding their tongues. I suppress a sigh. “This is how he wanted it. And we all know that Misha Orlov gets what he wants.”

“Screw him. My brother doesn’t know what he wants half the time,” Nikita snaps.

I smile sadly and turn to the mirror. “Well, unfortunately for all of us… I do.”





103

MISHA

I walk into the kitchen and pull up short. I’m half a second away from shouting at the stranger sitting in my breakfast nook with their feet up on the table… when I realize it isn’t a stranger at all.

Paige’s long, wavy locks have been chopped into gentle spirals that end at her shoulders. Her forehead is hidden behind a fringe brushing her eyebrows.

She looks different, but she’s as beautiful as ever.

I stand there and watch her for a moment. She’s usually in sweats and baggy t-shirts. But lately, she’s taken to wearing long, flowy dresses that hide her burgeoning belly. Her leg is propped up on the chair across from her, exposing an expanse of smooth, tan calf, and she’s flipping through a magazine with one hand and eating a calzone with the other.

When she hears me, she looks up, eyes blinking like she just woke up from a dream.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I needed a change of scenery.”

“You’re free to go wherever you want. This is your home, too.”

She gives me a look that suggests she hasn’t entirely bought into the notion yet.

“Your hair looks stunning, kiska.”

I don’t expect the blush that races up her cheeks. She tries to hide it by focusing on her magazine.

From here, I see enough details—handcrafted mobiles, pale teak cribs—to guess that she’s reading up on nurseries. The thought, the image, all of it, makes me shiver in a way that’s more than physical.

“Thanks,” she says without meeting my eyes. “I wanted a change.”

“It suits you.”

She shuffles around nervously for a second. “Any headway with my assistant?” she asks in a transparent attempt to change the subject. “I’ll need the person you hire to go to Orion first and grab a bunch of things for me. Rowan can help.”

“That’s what I came here to tell you: I’ve hired someone. Her name is Rose Kelaart. She’s twenty-nine years old and has previous experience working as a P.A. for two of my other portfolio

companies in the city.”

“Great. When does she start?”

“As soon as tomorrow, if you need her to.”

“Perfect,” she says, picking up her half-eaten calzone. “Thank you for these, by the way. But you really don’t have to. Shipping them in must cost you a fortune.”

She isn’t wrong. The Gingerbread House Bakery has figured out that I’ll pay almost anything to get their baked goods for Paige, so their shipping prices have doubled and then tripled in the last week alone.

Normally, I’d threaten them into groveling submission. But I find lately that I don’t care about petty shit like that.

I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy.

I shrug. “You love them. Nothing else matters.”

“Yes, but I’ll live without them.”

“Luckily, you don’t have to.”

She almost smiles, but then she catches herself. I see the walls go back up again. Even her body has tensed since I sat down. It’s like she has to physically demarcate herself off from me. As if every inch she gives up is one she’ll never get back.

I’ve been respectful of her space since she moved in a few days ago. I even agreed to let her move into the largest bedroom on the first floor even though I wanted her on the second floor next to me. But every night, I have to resist the urge to barge into her space and demand that she at least fucking talk to me.