I’m not in my bedroom. In fact, every room I’ve ever had could fit into this one at the same time. And none of them had an ensuite bathroom to boot.
I had the same bedroom for most of my childhood. Once Mom was gone, it wasn’t long before Dad couldn’t sustain the house on his own. It was all too much. Between the mortgage, bills, and the general costs of raising a child in Massachusetts, it made sense to downsize. Despite the pain of losing our home, I’d always understood that.
For a couple of years after we moved into that postage-stamp-sized apartment, my bedroom was the only one. Dad said girls needed their privacy and took to the pullout couch for himself.
He had been a good father.
Though it sometimes felt much longer, it had only been five years since he started his makeshift club. There hadn’t been a lot of start-up costs, given how the most priceless amenity his operation offered was secrecy. The seediness of the constantly shifting location was part of the Pit’s appeal.
Within the same year as it opened, it took off.
By the start of the next one, we were in a proper house again.
It was a nice house, too—with a picket fence and everything.
We each got our own room and plenty of other space. Over the past few years, I’ve added trinkets and personaltouches to mine. Posters and pictures. Candles with warm scents of cloves, cinnamon, chamomile, and lavender. I’ve built a wardrobe of pieces I can mix and match into outfits that make me feel good about myself. It isn’t glamorous, any of it, but it’s nice. I’ve tried so hard to make it all nice.
This austere bedroom makes it all seem like a bunch of crap.
The glossy, postcard-worthy view from the floor-to-ceiling windows that fill an entire wall of the room is only the start. I’ve lived in this city all my life, and I’ve never seen it from this high up. To top it all off, everything—from the square footage and furnishings—screams of luxury.
As I lie here, swathed in a ridiculous thread count, it occurs to me that the burgundy, navy, and sage green accents around the room tie in with the wardrobe Iosif had bought me last night. He’d picked up on what appealed to me within minutes of watching me browse. I don’t know how to process it, since it doesn’t exactly match his taste.
I don’t know how to process any of this.
How is this my real life?
New garment bags are hanging on the closet doors. Valentino. Chanel. Alice + Olivia. Ralph Lauren. Names I’d seen in magazines. Names that Iosif had thrown money at without blinking twice, for me.
My wife should look good,he’d said, like it was that simple.
I sit up just to bury my face in my hands. I press my knuckles against my lids until I see stars.
It isn’t enough to get his stupidly beautiful face out of my head. Or the way it looked, wearing unfiltered appreciation. Orthe brash sound of his laughter, explosive and warm. And his—God, his hands against my skin. No one had ever touched me like that, ever.
I shove myself out from under the covers, furious with myself.
He bought you,I remind myself.Your father may have been the one to sell you off like livestock, but this man paid for it.Fancy dresses don’t—should not—change that. Neither should the makeup he patiently waited for me to accumulate the night before. Or this room, or the space, he’s given me. He’s not my friend. He’s not my ally.
It isn’t even by my choice that he’s my—
No, I can’t even think of that word without feeling insane.
‘Husband’? It’s absurd.
My stomach growls in objection, shattering my reverie.
It’s a good enough reason to reposition my focus, directing it toward getting myself dressed for the day. I pull on a heavy, cozy, oversized burgundy turtleneck and the softest pair of leggings I’ve ever owned. Since I’m not exactly falling over myself to spend time with Oksana or the stony-faced soldiers waiting for me on the other side of the door, I take my time curling my hair and doing up my face. Eventually, I know I have to get out.
Today, there’s no one waiting outside my door.
That’s something.
I can hear some voices, too. They’re distant and not speaking English, but it’s proof of life. It’s not bad that it’s sounding far enough away. It makes me feel safe enough to venture into the kitchen and scavenge for some cereal.
I scarf it down in record time, standing at the counter like I’m still in a cramped apartment’s kitchen. Like I’m not a few steps away from a dining table that seats twelve.
When Oksana appears, she greets me perfunctorily and makes me some tea. She says nothing else when she leaves me to wander through the penthouse alone.
