"Good. Very good." Olga laughed bitterly. "Kirill, you've really outdoneyourself."
Then—soft footsteps from the doorway.
My heart seized. A cold dread washed over me.
I turned slowly.
The door stood open.
Harper stood there, drenched. That expensive camel coat had turned dark brown, hanging heavy. Rain streamed down her tangled hair, tracing her pale face, dripping from her chin.
Those eyes—usually warm and gentle—were hollow.
She'd heard.
Our eyes met.
In that instant, all my resolve crumbled. I wanted to explain. Tell her I was just trying to save someone. That I only said it so Genevie wouldn't be thrown out to die.
But then—a soft groan from behind me.
"Kirill, my stomach hurts..."
Genevie's voice was a noose around my neck. The explanation I'd almost spoken died in my throat.
What was I doing? How could I hurt Genevie again? She'd been through enough. She had no one. Only me.
And Harper... she was tough as weeds. The kindest girl I'd ever met. She'd understand.
Just get through tonight. Just settle Genevie somewhere safe, make sure Julian couldn't touch her, and then I'd explain everything to Harper. I'd tell her it was just temporary.
Yes. Harper was stronger than Genevie. Harper could handle this.
So I stopped.
Dropped my gaze. Couldn't look at Harper anymore.
Chapter Fifteen
Harper
Genevie moved into the guest room in the east wing—where the light was best and, goddamn it, closest to Kirill's study.
I stepped out of my bedroom, staring at that door across the hall. I couldn't ignore it. Not when doctors, nutritionists, and half a dozen maids carrying trays crowded the entrance.
That hallway buzzed with activity. My master bedroom? Just me and Anna, whose sympathetic eyes couldn't hide her embarrassment.
Three days. Kirill hadn't set foot in this room for three days. He only came back occasionally, slipping quickly into that guest room before leaving again.
He'd stopped mentioning the Russia trip. Hell, he'd stopped talking to me at all.
The occasional text message proved my husband was still alive and remembered he had a wife named Harper. But his tone was as formal as a tax return.
"I won't be home tonight."
I stared at the screen. Hadn't replied to a single one. Not just because I didn't know what to say—I was terrified of the answer.
I was afraid that answer would be my death sentence. If I didn't ask, maybe I could pretend we weren't over yet.
