40
SIMA
The next day, I cope the only way I can: by chasing Anya out of the kitchen and cooking for an army.
Though “chasing” is a bit harsh. All I did was give her the day off and suggest she spend it by buying herself something nice. The stink-eye she gave me was enough to send literal chills down my spine. I’ll probably have to check my food for poison every day for a month.
But it’s worth it, because as I stir my mother’s special sauce in the pan, my head finally quiets a little.
Mom.The scent of garlic and tomato brings her face to the forefront of my mind. Without thinking, I start humming a tune under my breath, a song she used to sing when Lara and I were little.
Her singing always made the house feel warmer. For a long time, it was the only thing keeping the flame going. We didn’t know that yet—we were too small to understand.
By the time we understood, it was too late. The perma-quiet had set in, like black mold eating away at the walls.
But before that happened—before we lost her to grief and helplessness—cooking was her refuge. For a while, I thought I’d inherited her passion. But my father snuffed it out of me like he did most things that didn’t suit his idea of a well-bred Bratva bride, so I was never allowed to cook when he was around.
Luckily, he wasn’t around much, so Mom still taught me.
Now, the act of chopping and stirring, of creating something out of nothing, tugs me right back in. Like my mother, I find comfort in it. It keeps my hands busy, my mind focused, and my heart from racing too far ahead of reality.
And besides, all this—me at the stove, making dinner for my husband—feels dangerously close to something a normal couple might do. It lets me indulge in the illusion in a way that’s more harmless than most, if not the healthiest.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I wipe my hands on a towel and check it: Jemma.
U alive?
My throat tightens. I’ve been so wrapped up here, in this gilded cage, that I forgot the outside world still exists. I text back quickly:All good! Honeymoon-busy. Let’s have lunch soon, when I’m in the city, okay?A small promise I’m not sure I can keep, but I owe her at least that much.
Jemma’s reply comes right away.It’s a date!
Just then, the front door clicks open, and the sound of heels on hardwood makes my shoulders stiffen.
Great. Rich Bitch incoming.
A moment later, Kira strolls into the kitchen, glossy and polished even after hours at the hospital. Her eyes land on me at the stove, and her lips curl.
“Well,” she says, “you’ve certainly made yourself comfortable in my home.”
I grip the spoon a little tighter. “Dinner,” I say lightly, gesturing toward the pan. “Figured I’d cook tonight.”
Then guilt pricks at me. I remember Petyr’s words from last night, about Kira having been through so much. About her insecurities.
“You’re welcome to join us,” I add, softer.
Apparently, it’s the wrong thing to say. Her face hardens, eyes narrowing to slits. “Us?” she spits. “Don’t act like you belong here. You’ve stolen everything from me, and I’m supposed to make do with your dinner scraps?”
“I’m not trying to steal anything. Petyr mentioned you’ve been under a lot of stress. I thought maybe—if you wanted—we could share a meal. That’s all.”
But she isn’t listening. Her voice rises, shrill and ragged at the edges. “That was supposed to bemylife. My husband. My family. You think you can just slip in and take what was meant for me?”
My chest tightens, but I force myself to meet her glare. I want to remind her that none of this was my idea, that I didn’t march down the aisle begging for a Bratva marriage.
But what good would that do? She’s not angry atme—well, she is, but I’m just the target standing closest to her grief and fear. Collateral damage.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say finally, though my pulse hammers in my throat.
Her nostrils flare, and for a second, I think she might actually slap the spoon out of my hand. Instead, she spins on her heel, heels thunking furiously as she storms out of the kitchen.
