I was ready to accept his anger, apologize, and admit I was wrong.
But I never expected him to treat me like that. In front of my friend. With that cold, humiliating cruelty.
He hadn't even given me a chance to explain.
But what hurt most wasn't just his rage. It was that painting he treasured.
That blonde woman—who was she?
Chapter Eleven
Harper
After Rihanna left, my life slipped into a strange silence.
Kirill didn't blow up. Didn't mention what happened in the study that night. He just... ignored me. We became two ghosts sharing a house, passing each other in the long hallways. When his eyes fell on me, they looked straight through, focused on the air behind me. It felt worse than being told to get the hell out—like I'd never existed at all.
The silence was driving me insane.
I hid in the bathroom, secretly searching my phone for anything matching that woman's features. Downloaded a few image recognition apps, trying to fish her shadow out of the endless internet.
The screen spat back countless unfamiliar faces. Or irrelevant art galleries.
Nothing.
She was like a carefully erased secret, living only in Kirill's forbidden study and in that heart of his I'd never really touched.
"Ma'am?"
Anna's voice startled me. My phone nearly dropped into the sink.
I killed the screen and spun around. Anna held a freshly pressed shirt, her brow creased with obvious concern.
"You barely touched your salad at lunch," Anna hesitated, then stepped closer. "Is it because Mr. Kirill hasn't been home for meals?"
Her concern loosened something tight in my chest. In this massive, cold house, Anna was the only one who could help me.
Olga would help, too, of course. But she was old. I didn't want her worrying about Kirill and me.
"Anna," I bit my lip. The need to know the truth won out. I lowered my voice. "That woman in the painting in the study—did she used to come here often?"
Anna shook her head. "I never met her, ma'am. That painting was here before I started."
Right. Which meant this woman mattered so much to Kirill that even after all this time, she still occupied the most important spot in his study.
If it were her, Kirill wouldn't lock the door. Wouldn't keep me out.
Anna's worried gaze settled on me. My nose stung. Tears threatened. To escape this suffocating truth, I buried myself at the nursing home.
Only work let me forget I was an unwelcome wife. Here, I fed cranky old people. Dealt with soiled sheets. Endured the sharp smell of disinfectant. Physical exhaustion gave my brain a moment's peace.
Evening brought rain. I'd just stepped out when a red convertible screeched to a stop in front of me, blocking my path.
Two women sat inside, wrapped in expensive furs, faces painted perfectly.
The driver removed her sunglasses. Eyes lined with sharp wings swept over me like searchlights—from my messy hair to the cheap sweatshirt I wore for work to my mud-splattered sneakers.
A satisfied smile bloomed on her face.
