I watch the color drain from her face as the reality of her situation sinks in.
She’s completely cut off, completely isolated.
Completely mine.
“You’re insane,” she whispers. “This is insane.”
“Rule five: you’ll present yourself appropriately at all times. Hair, makeup, clothing—all will meet my standards. You represent me now, and I won’t have my wife looking like a college student.”
“I am a college student!” She’s shouting now, the sheet forgotten as she gestures wildly. “Or I was, before you destroyed my life!”
“Your father destroyed your life,” I correct coldly. “I’m just making you pay for it.”
“By turning me into some kind of trophy wife? Some doll you can dress up and control?”
“By making you understand what it means to lose everything.” I set the paper down and move toward her again. “Your freedom. Your identity. Your future. Everything you took for granted, everything you thought was yours by right—gone. Just like Nicole’s was.”
Sophia’s eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them back furiously. “I didn’t take anything from your sister. I didn’t even know her.”
“You carry your father’s blood. His name. His sins.” I’m close enough now to smell her, that floral scent mixed with the muskof our lovemaking. It makes my head spin. “That makes you guilty by association.”
“That’s not how justice works.”
“This isn’t justice.” I lean in, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “This is revenge. And I’m going to savor every moment of it.”
She shoves me hard, and I let her. Let her think she has some power here, though I don’t budge. “I hate you,” she says, her voice shaking. “I hate everything about you.”
“Good.” I straighten my shirt, forcing myself to step back. “Hate is honest. Hate I can work with.”
A knock at the door interrupts us. “Come in,” I call.
Elena enters, carrying an armful of clothing.
She’s one of the few people in this house I trust completely, and she’s seen enough in her years here to know when to keep her mouth shut.
She takes one look at Sophia wrapped in the sheet, at the tension crackling between us, and her expression remains carefully neutral.
“The clothes you requested, Mr. Artyomov,” she says quietly, setting them on the bed.
“Thank you, Elena. Please show Mrs. Artyomov how to dress appropriately. Then bring her down to breakfast. I have someone I want her to meet.”
Elena nods and turns to Sophia. “If you’ll come with me, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me that,” Sophia snaps. “I’m not?—”
“You are,” I interrupt. “Get used to it.”
I leave before she can respond, before I can see the hurt in her eyes, before I can do something weak like apologize.
In the hallway, I lean against the wall and close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.
This is for Nicole, I remind myself. This is what she deserves. What they all deserve.
But the words ring hollow in my mind.
I head downstairs to my office and pour myself a drink even though it’s barely eight in the morning.
The whiskey burns going down, but it doesn’t wash away the taste of Sophia’s lips or the memory of her body moving beneath mine.
