PROLOGUE
ANIKA
One Year Ago
“Pyotr!” Warmth overflows from Anthony Burwick, billionaire business tycoon and host of the evening, as he spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture, parting the crowd of finely dressed guests to approach my husband.
The businessman’s brilliant, white-toothed smile splits his tanned face, which looks like he’s just returned from a month’s vacation on some remote Caribbean island.
The touch of gray at his temples is so perfectly placed that I almost wonder if he left it intentionally to make himself look more distinguished. The rest of his dark hair is most definitely colored.
Burwick’s striking, young model of the month approaches wordlessly beside him, her thick head of dark hair cascading over her bare shoulders to brush across the plunging neckline of her black sequin mermaid cocktail dress.
“Quite the party you’ve put on for a charity event, Anthony,” Pyotr says, the edge to his voice almost imperceptible as he turns on the charm.
But I sense the way he tenses beside me—something I’ve gotten much quicker at identifying over the past month as his wife—and my stomach knots as cold perspiration breaks out across the nape of my neck.
The heat of Pyotr’s irritation at being addressed so informally rolls off him in waves, intensifying my anxiety.
In public, my husband might be genial—gregarious even.
But I know from experience that his mood can shift in the blink of an eye, and it takes every ounce of self-control to keep a smile on my face now, despite the tremble that starts in my stomach.
But that’s what he expects me to do, and if I make Pyotr look bad at tonight’s gala, I know I’ll regret it later, so I do my best to mask the instinctual fear that surges through my veins.
“And this must be your beautiful new bride,” Harwick says, his eyes shifting to look me up and down with blatant appreciation. “I’m happy to see you’ve managed to find love again after Silvia’s passing. Her replacement certainly is a stunner.”
Don’t mind me.It’s not likeSilvia’s replacementhas a name or anything,I snipe internally, because even if Pyotr’s silenced my tongue, he hasn’t crushed my personality.
Still, I bite back the scathing retort because, in my world—the world that men like Pyotr Novikov dominate—this is just how men talk about women.
I’ve learned it’s better to keep my mouth shut and let my husband handle the conversation.
“It didn’t take you long to find a newer model, now did it?” Burwick’s business partner, John Hampton, asks, stepping into the conversation uninvited and grabbing Pyotr’s hand to shake it as soon as Burwick is done.
Pyotr gives a low chuckle that his clients might not realize borders on sinister—but I do.
“Gentlemen, this is my wife, Anika Novikov.” Pyotr places his hand on the small of my back, pushing me forward a step as he ignores Hampton’s slight.
The intimacy of my husband’s touch unleashes goosebumps along my spine, and I force my smile a shade brighter to hide the way my skin crawls. “It’s a privilege to meet two of Pyotr’s best customers,” I say, my cheeks warming as Hampton bends over my hand to press his lips to my knuckles.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Pyotr’s look of disapproval, and I snatch my hand away as quickly as I can without offending the businessman.
“You have some big shoes to fill,” Hampton says, his eyes glinting with unspoken amusement as they meet mine.
He’s saying it as much to provoke Pyotr as he is to undermine my place by his side—and it’s working.
I can feel Pyotr’s temper escalating, the air around him electric with the potential for violence.
After all, everyone knows the rumors surrounding Pyotr’s previous marriage.
Burwick tsks, shaking his head sadly. “Silvia was such a gem. What a tragic accident.”
By now, I’m quite familiar with the gossip as well—and the fact that Silvia wasn’t the first of Pyotr’s wives to meet a tragic and rather unexpected end.
A month ago, I would have fallen for my husband’s heartbreaking claim to be unlucky in love.
Twice.
