I take one long trembling breath after another.
Then I unlock the closet and push open the door.
31
BELLA
“Take whatever you need,”Slava says quietly.
And then he steps back into the bedroom, leaving me alone in the massive walk-in closet.
Unlike the rest of the penthouse, the closet doesn’t try to overwhelm.
Even though it’s lined with rows of neatly organized clothes—by color, by season, and by fabric weight—it still manages to exude a sense of gentle warmth that is so absent from everything else in Slava’s life.
My fingers trail along silk blouses and cashmere sweaters. The fabrics are so exquisite and luxurious that they whisper. Shoes are arranged on custom-lit shelves. And there are handbags of every brand displayed in glass cases.
I pull a blouse from its hanger—gorgeous cream silk with delicate pearl buttons—and hold it against my body. The shoulders are too narrow and the waist is too defined. I turn it over, and find that there’s no brand tag.
These clothes are custom-made,I realize.For someone with a taller yet more delicate frame than my own.
I check another piece. And another. And another.
Same story every time.
Slowly, I feel an unease settling in the pit of my stomach. All these clothes are the same, which tells me they’re not meant for random hookups. Nor are they part of any backup wardrobe in case of emergency.
The jealousy that had twisted in my stomach when I realized the list of names had been written by a woman’s hand now returns.
And even as I remind myself that I’m being unreasonable, I can’t stop myself from wondering.
Who was she to him?
The question drips in my mind like acid, and it seeps deep into my bones. I walk deeper into the closet, expecting to find more things that might give me an answer. Maybe a photo, maybe a name, maybe a hint other than these clothes made just for her.
It’s ridiculous. It’sinsane. Less than two hours ago, I nearly drowned in Long Island Sound. Less than an hour ago, I came harder than I’ve ever come on Slava’s fingers.
And now, I’m being consumed with jealousy over a woman I’ve never met.
She must’ve meant enough to him if he’s kept everything she owned, and preserved them perfectly like a butterfly trapped in amber.
I yank a blouse off its hanger with more force than necessary. Then a silk camisole. A cashmere cardigan follows. Then I taketwo long skirts that will probably puddle around my feet, but I can roll the waistbands.
Each piece I touch releases another whisper of perfume.
It’s floral and soft, a custom blend of scents whose components I can’t decipher. Once I notice it, I can’tstopnoticing it. Every breath fills my lungs with another woman’s presence. Every fabric carries her ghost.
By the time I grab enough clothes, her perfume clings stubbornly to my fingers, coats my clothes, and buries itself inside of my nose until I can taste it on my tongue.
And with every breath I take, I can hear her ghost whispering angrily in my ear:He doesn’t belong to you.
An hour later,we’re wheels up in Slava’s private plane.
I texted Lydia before we boarded, my fingers clumsy on the screen as I tried to explain that I’d be gone for several days without actually explaining anything at all.
Emergency work trip. France. Can you stay with Anthony?
Her response came in three parts:
