"Yes," I say. "My concern is that you fulfill your end of the arrangement. Nothing more."
Disappointment and hurt flickers across her expression, quickly masked by anger that makes her shoulders go rigid.
She steps back. Puts distance between us like she's withdrawing more than just physically.
"I went to see Amelia," she says, voice flat now, emotionless in the way people get when they're protecting themselves from further damage. "My father's housekeeper. The woman who practically raised me after my mother died. I went because I miss her. Because she's the closest thing to family I have left."
The words land with unexpected weight. A truth I didn't anticipate, rendering my accusations hollow.
"And while I was there," she continues, still not looking at me, gaze fixed on some point past my shoulder, "I picked up some meals. Healthy, balanced meals that we can actually eat instead of surviving on takeout and restaurant food. Because apparently, none of you know how to feed yourselves properly."
She turns toward the door, spine rigid, head held high in that particular way of hers.
"Victoria, wait—"
But she's already leaving. Walking away with the grace of someone who's had practice at dignified retreats.
The kitchen feels too bright. Too empty.
I stand there in the aftermath of my own stupidity, trying to process what just happened, trying to understand how I misjudged the situation so completely.
Then I notice the container still sitting on the counter. One she didn't put away.
I pick it up. Open the refrigerator to put it inside.
And stop.
The interior is stocked differently than it's ever been. Not just food. Not random groceries thrown in without thought.
It's deliberate. Protein-rich meals in perfect portions. Vegetables balanced with complex carbs. Juice boxes stacked neatly. Glucose tablets in small containers organized by date.
Everything mirrors what's in Alexei's suite. The private stock he keeps because his condition requires it, because his body will kill him without constant vigilance.
Understanding crashes over me.
She knows. She saw the insulin pump in the gym, put the pieces together, and instead of using that information as leverage or exposing his vulnerability to gain advantage, she did this.
She built him a safety net without asking for credit or acknowledgment.
I close the refrigerator slowly. Lean against the counter. Try to make sense of a woman who doesn't fit any category I've built for understanding people.
She's quietly, anonymously taking care of someone who hasn't asked for care.
I have absolutely no idea what to do with that information.
For the first time in years, I'm completely at a loss.
12
VICTORIA
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room, making final adjustments to the red silk dress that clings to every curve before falling in elegant folds to the floor. The color is bold. Dangerous. Exactly the statement I need to make tonight.
Another charity gala. Another performance as Mrs. Maksim Severyn, the perfect trophy wife opening doors to Chicago's elite.
I've played this role a thousand times before. Tonight should be no different.
A knock at the door interrupts my assessment.
