Knocking at the front door, I’m greeted by silence, which is obviously the next phase of the game being played. Eventually, the door swings open and a stunning blonde answers. She’s very beautiful, like a catwalk model, except her eyes are like shards of ice, matching her icy veneer. She doesn’t say anything as she takes her sweet-ass time looking me up and down.
Shockingly, or not, considering how toxic she’s acting, her scent reminds me of the fragrance, Poison. I have to breathe through my mouth, so I don’t choke on the noxious fumes.
In a move that reeks of her being territorial, she brushes her right hand down her couture dress, making the diamond tennis bracelets on her wrist clink together. Of course, she’s holding her hand in such a way that it’s nearly impossible to miss the diamond ring on her finger.
Given the very expensive clothes she’s wearing, the way her appearance is immaculate, and the jewelry she’s flashing, it’s not hard to figure out that whoever she is, she’s into my fiancé. Or he’s into her.
But I can be a dick too. I learned from the best, after all.
I snatch her hand and twist it slightly. “Wow, we have very similar rings. I wish I had yours. The smaller size would be so much more practical. This one is so large, it”—I wave my engagement ring around—“gets caught on everything. Are you here to show me to my suite?”
The docile act was always going to be a hard one to maintain. And, really, the sooner Petrov’s mistress knows I’m not going to be treated like shit, the better.
“Go there.” She points a finger across the room while staring through me.
It’s petty, the way we have a standoff, neither of us moving, but she folds first with a dramatic roll of her eyes. And I take the win with a triumphant smirk.
Her heels clack loudly against the hardwood floor as she struts through the house with her ownership wafting behind her like a peacock’s tail. I probably should be more offended by her being the one to welcome me, but I get distracted by the beautiful interior of Sergey’s house.
The inside matches the outside—grand and unquestionably beautiful. Historians and architects would be enamored by the immaculate condition of the original home, along with the collection of furniture peppered throughout. Ornate hand-painted cabinets with gilded gold accents, matching writing desks, and armchairs upholstered in rich fabrics fill room after room. Carved sideboards inlaid with more gold, humongous display cabinets full of family photo frames, priceless mementos and Fabergé eggs are the only things I see. I’d put money on this being the house where Sergey’s grandfather, or his grandmother, was born.
And judgmental me wonders if Russian Barbie has ever stopped to admire the history on display, or if she even gives a shit. We reach a set of stairs, and I realize beyond the grandeur of the house, there’s purpose too. In most normal houses, the stairs are at the front of the house, but in this one, it’s set further inside. Maybe it’s a security measure, or I’ve underestimated the actual size of the property.
One day soon, I’ll take my time and explore, but for now, I follow her as she pitter-patters up the stairs.
The stairs are in beautiful condition. They’re clearly old, and, like the rest of the house, would have history buffs entertained for hours. The handrails are detailed, the workmanship has been well maintained, and if you look carefully, some of the detail is repeated in the most beautiful stair runner I’ve seen. Long brassfittings keep the woven masterpiece in place. I seriously want to take my shoes off and sink my toes into the run; it looks soft as silk, and the colors make my Omega side sigh in contentment.
Barbie keeps swanning up the stairs, completely oblivious to what she’s standing on. I go to follow her, but she shakes her head, flicking her hand towards the other side.
“Sergey’s suite is private.” She grins, pointing at the doors behind her. Looking me dead in the eye, she speaks in her heavily accented, high-pitched voice. “You go that way. You are not coming in here.”
Keeping with the whole bitchy vibe she’s been running with since opening the door, she flicks her long, blonde hair over her shoulder before pressing her hand on the scanner. The door clicks, and she disappears into my fiancé’s suite. Her cloying scent lingers like the smell of a dead body in the sun.
I can’t help but grin at Barbie’s ballsy display. At least it’s going to be entertaining if she’s around.
Left alone, I follow a large corridor and her terrible directions until I find a wing that looks and feels like a visitor's suite. Like the rest of the house, the rooms are lush and steeped in history. There’s a rich burgundy and gold master, with matching oversized bathroom, and a deep green and black bedroom adjoins it. Across the hallway is a very large sitting room with several areas for seating, a dining table for six, a wall of library shelves, and a small but practical kitchenette tucked into one corner.
The second I walk into a small pale-blue bedroom, my decision is almost made. Thealmostcomes because this room sits at the end of a corridor and faces a double set of doors.
It’s kind of pointless testing if the door will open, given it has the same security scanner installed on the wall that Barbie used, but I still try. And when it won’t open, I press my ear against the door to see if I can hear anything. Whatever is behind the doors,it’s tomb quiet, and it’s a relief because it means I’m here by myself. I think.
There’s something about the blue room that drags me back inside, even though it puts me in a bad position. A dead end is never good; it reduces your options in an emergency. But there’s no denying something eases inside me as soon as I step foot inside the room.
Everything about it is appealing, and the light streaming through the antique-looking windows makes me want to curl up like a cat and sleep where the sunlight pools on the carpet. It’s hard to ignore how relatively safe I feel, despite being close to the locked double doors.
The sound of people talking in hushed voices has me retracing my steps back to the large master suite, where two uniformed staff ignore me as they take my bags into the room.
I put on a smile as I step inside. “Hi.”
I wasn’t expecting a lot from them, considering how my interactions run, but at least these two don’t start pissing on the furnishings like Barbie nearly did.
“I can do that,” I offer, trying to keep as cheery as possible.
The women drop their eyes to the floor, and their scents get a sharp edge to it, like they’re cautious of me, which makes no sense, unless someone has been saying shit behind my back.
I look over to the cart they brought in with them. It’s full of drinks, fresh fruit, and small snacks. “How about you do that? And I’ll unpack my bags.”
And then I walk back into the hallway, so they can talk or do whatever they need to without me hovering over them. One of the things I hated about living with my father was the shitty way most of his people, including other members of my family, treated the staff. I always went out of my way to chat with them, and I never, ever, had that attitude that they were responsible for cleaning up after me or waiting on me hand and foot.
