"This is..." I don't know how to finish.
"Too much?" He's watching my reaction.
"Beautiful. Impersonal. Like a very expensive hotel."
"That's this entire house." He moves to the windows, looking out over the grounds. "Don't leave the mansion without security. Don't go near the east wing—that's private."
"What's in the east wing?"
"Nothing that concerns you." His voice is ice. All the warmth from the gallery kiss is gone, replaced by cold Bratva boss.
Fine. Two can play that game.
"Anything else?" I ask, matching his tone.
"Irina runs the house. She'll bring meals. If you need anything, ask her." He moves toward the door. "I have work to do. Make yourself comfortable."
He leaves without another word.
I stand in the middle of the blue suite, surrounded by expensive furniture and crushing silence, and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.
The first three days are torture.
Monday, October 4th:
I wake at 7:00 AM to the sounds of the house coming alive. Shower in the massive bathroom, dress in leggings and a simple shirt.
I explore the mansion, getting lost in the maze of corridors and formal rooms. Find the library—full of Russian literature, leather chairs, the smell of old books. Set up my laptop there to work remotely.
Video calls with Maya about the gallery. Insurance wants documentation of every damaged piece. Collectors are calling,concerned about their consignments. I field questions, approve decisions, and try to run my business from 120 miles away.
Around an hour later, I'm exploring the second floor between the north and west wings when a door opens and Maksim steps out.
In a towel.
Just a towel.
Low-slung, barely decent, water droplets sliding down his chest and abs. His hair is wet, silver streaks darker. He's got scars—bullet wounds, knife marks, the physical evidence of violence.
We freeze. Stare at each other.
"Sorry," he says, voice rough. "Didn't expect anyone up here."
"I was just—" I gesture vaguely. "Exploring."
His eyes drop to what I'm wearing. Simple clothes, nothing provocative, but his jaw tightens anyway.
I stand there in the hallway, heart pounding, very aware that I just saw Maksim Petrov basically naked and my body has opinions about that.
Bad opinions. Inappropriate opinions.
"I should—" He gestures back to his room.
"Yeah. I'll just—" I point down the hallway.
We both retreat to separate wings like teenagers caught doing something wrong.
Breakfast at 9 AM in the formal dining room is painful. He's fully dressed now—three-piece suit, all business, reading financial reports. Won't look at me.
