The bag isheavy in the wrong way. Not the good kind of heavy—likeI am prepared for every possible scenario, apocalypse included.No. This is a smug, judgmental kind of heavy, the kind that drags behind me like it knows it’s full of bad decisions.
I glare down at it as I haul it across the polished floor, like maybe sheer intimidation will make it less… Gwen.
Because that’s what it is: a Gwen-packed suitcase.
And a Gwen-packed suitcase means exactly zero actual clothes.
I should’ve known better. This is the same woman who once declared a silk robe “business casual” and, with a glass of wine in her hand, informed me that “coverage is for cowards.”
So when Nadia warned me,she’s not going to pack you anything sensible, I laughed it off. I thought, fine, let her pack a few things. I mean, it’s my honeymoon. I love Aleksandr. I want to look good for him. I want him to want me. A little lingerie is not a crime.
But an entire suitcase of nothingbutlingerie?
That’s a felony.
Fishnet stockings. Satin teddies so sheer they could pass for fog. Garter belts. Lace scraps that I’m not even sure count as fabric. Not one bra that can be worn under a shirt. Not one pair of underwear that doesn’t require a prayer and a maintenance schedule. One piece was literally a ribbon.
Do you know what wasnotin there?
Clothes. Like, normal clothes. Jeans. Sweaters. Anything that would let me walk through an airport without immediately being escorted out by security.
So, at four in the morning—while my brand-new husband was laying in bed just watching me in pure amusement—I staged a tiny rebellion. I ripped out half of her “collection” and shoved in whatever I could find in my closet: three pairs of jeans, two shirts that actually cover more than a single inch of skin, two pairs of sweatpants (because I like comfort, sue me), one sundress that doesn’t screamtake me now, and a few skirts.
Skirts for easy access. Because, yes, I want Aleksandr to have access to me.
God. I can’t believe I’m thinking that.
Now I’m wrestling this Frankenstein of a suitcase down the stone steps, praying that TSA doesn’t ever unzip it. Because nothing in here is folded. I didn't have the time. And I know the very first thing they’ll see is the crotchless thong I forgot to take out. Which, to be clear, is not underwear. It’s… pussy decoration. I will die on that hill.
And as if that wasn’t enough of a disaster, Gwen didn’t pack a single book. Not one. Like she honestly thought I would spend aweek with Aleksandr, surrounded by beaches, champagne, and silk, and not bring backup in the form of three fantasy novels, two thrillers, and my annotated copy ofPride and Prejudice.
Luckily, past Lily knows future Lily, so I took matters into my own hands.
I packed a backpack. A very heavy backpack.
I drag it across the floor now, hunching over as I wrestle the straps onto my shoulders. It’s stuffed with hardcovers and paperbacks, my favorite journal, and enough pens to survive an apocalypse. The weight nearly tips me backward as I straighten, and the books slam into my spine like they’re punishing me for my life choices.
If the suitcase doesn’t kill me, the books will.
I’m still trying to adjust the straps, hair falling into my face, when the bedroom door swings open in front of me.
“Morning wife,” Aleksandr smirks, stepping up beside me, his shadow falling over me.
“Hey hubby,” I beam, my voice too high to be natural, as I blow a strand of my hair from dangling in front of my eyes.
“I like the sound of that,” He practically growls and my skin prickles with goosebumps.
One large hand plucks the backpack right off my shoulders like it weighs nothing—never mind that it nearly flattened me—and with the other he rolls the suitcase away from me, the wheels gliding like suddenly they remember how to work whenhe’sthe one pulling them.
“What happened to you this morning?” I say, zipping up my baby blue crop top sweater over my white sports bra which matches with my oversized sweatpants and brand new white NewBalance sneakers.
Aleksandr is dressed in a way that shouldn’t be legal for daylight: black jeans that fit like they were made for him, because, needless to say, he doesn’t believe in sweatpants; an oversized black hoodie that drapes over his shoulders and tapers perfectly at his hips; and black Nike Air Forces that somehow make him look even taller. He looks dangerously delicious, and I am thankful to be behind him so he can’t see me drooling.
“I went for a run this morning,” he says, his voice low, a rough purr that grazes over the curve of my throat, “and handled a few Bratva matters. So now…” His eyes slide down to me, slow, deliberate. “…I can give this entire week to you.”
I swear I feel the words in my knees.
Without breaking stride, he reaches past me and opens the front door like it’s nothing, and I step through without thinking—because it’s Aleksandr. And everything about him pulls me forward, inevitable as gravity.
