Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(49)

“Only an hour.”

“Rada!”

She smiles. “It wasn’t an inconvenience. I love being out in the gardens.”

“Are you the one who cleared up the dinner dishes last night?”

She nods. “Mr. Orlov helped, too.”

I frown, wondering if that’s true or if she’s just trying to make him look good for reasons I can’t quite explain.

Before I can ask, Rada’s eyes light up at the sight of my ring. “That ring is amazing.”

“It is certainly something.” I give her a tight smile. “Hey, Rada, do you know where Mr. Orlov is right now?”

“In his study, I believe.”

“Thanks.” I start moving past her down the stone path to the house.

“Miss Paige,” she calls after me, “what about breakfast?”

“Later,” I tell her. “I’ll come to the kitchen.”

There’s a gnawing in my stomach that I need to settle first if I have any hope of keeping my breakfast down.

I don’t knock before I walk into Misha’s office. I figure, since I’m officially his wife now, we can do away with the formalities. Not that I bothered much with them even before we were married.

Misha is enthroned behind his desk, his face buried in a stack of paperwork. The crease in his brow tells me it is far from fun. He looks up when I enter. The heat I saw in his eyes last night is gone. In its place is the same cold, stony cruelty I couldn’t look away from the first time we met.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I say with false brightness. “Shouldn’t we be on our honeymoon right about now?”

He gives me an impatient scowl. “A honeymoon was never part of the bargain.”

And there it is. My first reminder that I sold my soul and dreams for a black Amex card.

“Clearly. You left me out in the greenhouse alone.”

I didn’t come here to fight. I certainly don’t want to fall into the role of nagging wife so soon.

Especially considering our “marriage” is supposed to be free of the burdens a real couple would face.

This arrangement is meant to be easier. All of the pros, none of the cons.

But waking up alone in that greenhouse with a fancy credit card at my side instead of my husband…

Well, it didn’t feel like a pro.

It felt more like a slap in the face.

“I had work to do and you needed your rest.”

“Consummating a fake marriage can really take it out of you.”

“Which part of last night felt fake to you?” His gaze flicks over me and then away. Like I’m nothing more than a gnat buzzing around his head. “If you’re worried about the staff seeing you naked, you can rest easy. I ordered them to stay out of the gardens this morning. And Danica and Mario have the day off.”

“That’s not what I’m annoyed about.”

He sighs and puts his pen down. “Then please, get to the point. What exactly are you annoyed about?”

Answers spring to my lips right away.

The fact that I’m sleeping with my husband, but I’m not allowed to feel anything for him.

The fact that I agreed to this arrangement in the first place.

The fact that it’s too late to turn back now.

Instead of any of those, I ask, “What is this?” and hold up the envelope with the credit card in it.

He wrinkles his nose wearily. “I thought it was pretty self-explanatory.”

“I have my own credit card. I have my own savings account.”

Misha folds his hands together. “And how much money do you have in that savings account?”

I hesitate. “What does that have to do with—”

“The account linked to that credit card currently has four hundred thousand dollars in it,” he informs me in a bored voice. “On the first and fifteenth of every month, an additional fifty thousand will be added. If you want more, simply say the word. It has no limit.”

I stare at him, mouth agape. “You put four hundred thousand dollars in an account? For me?”

“Did I not just explain that?”

I shake my head, disgusted and disbelieving in equal measure. “I don’t want that money.”

His scowl sharpens. “Excuse me?”

“Whatever money lands in my account will be because I earned it,” I tell him. “I have a job. The boss is an asshole, but the pay is decent. You don’t need to—to buy my cooperation. Like I’m some escort.

I’ve never taken anything I haven’t earned.”

Misha’s jaw tightens. He springs to his feet and storms around his desk to get up in my face.

Great. That’s just what this fire needs.

Proximity.

When he’s close enough to kiss, he snarls, “Where’d you learn that? At the trailer park?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I snap. “I may have grown up in a shithole, but I have my pride. Even poor people have integrity. More of it than you rich assholes, actually, in my experience. Growing up the way I did gave me the drive to work for what I want in life.”

“Well, you’re the wife of a don now,” he counters. “There’s no need for you to work at all.”

“We’ve already had this discussion—”