This morning, he jogged with me but then was working with the twins at the computer all day. This afternoon he disappeared again.
I like to think his avoidance is because of his blue-ball situation. Something I’m not the slightest bit sorry for. But I didn’t like the way it felt. To be ignored. Dumped. Locked in.
So the first time the living room emptied of people—what seems to be a rare occurrence there—I bailed. I grabbed my purse—the giant one I pre-packed with a few things and shut my bedroom door like I was locked inside reading. They may not notice I’m gone until Maxim returns.
The front door guy tried to stop me, but I got up in his face and pulled the bratva brat act. “Do you know who I am? No? I am Sasha Antonov, daughter of Igor Antonov, Ravil’s boss and wife of Maxim Popov. I can tell you my husband would not approve of you touching me or detaining me, right now.”
The guy dropped his touch on my arm like I was made of fire. “One moment, Mrs. Popov. He told me not to let you go out unattended.” The guy looked around, desperate for someone else to help him out—I’m sure he was debating whether it was worse to leave his post or to let me go.
I switched tactics and turned on the charm. “It’s okay. Maxim knows I’m just running to the store to grab some feminine hygiene products.” I whisper the feminine hygiene part.
He pulled back even more. “I’ll tell Maxim what a great job you’re doing manning your station down here. Thanks so much!” I waved my fingers individually and scooted out the door.
Dodging my security is a talent I’ve perfected.
Now I have my phone off, so Maxim can’t reach me, and I’ll be in L.A. by nightfall. Ready to tear up the town like old times.
Although with Maxim, there will certainly be consequences. I think of the way he tossed me over his lap and spanked my ass back in Russia and my lady parts warm. I’m totally warped because I’m actually hoping he does it again.
It excited me far more than I care to examine. But he excites me far more than I care to examine.
I pop my earbuds in my ears to watch reruns of Game of Thrones. After my Downton Abbey binge on the way over here, I’m still in the mood for period pieces. Game of Thrones seems fitting for my life now. That’s what we’re all playing with each other, after all.
Maxim
I return to the penthouse with an emerald ring in my pocket with enough bling to be seen from the moon. It has tiny diamonds all around it and down the band, and I engraved it with our names. I hated seeing Igor’s ring on Sasha’s finger, the constant reminder of what a sham of a wedding we had. I hated the symbolism of it, too. Like she was really married to her father not me.
I open the door to the penthouse with a spring in my step, thinking I’ve finally done something right when it comes to her.
She’s not in the living room. Nikolai and Dima are there, arguing heatedly over the best way to segment and match data from the airlines.
“Where’s Sasha, in my room?”
Dima spares me a glance. “Da. She’s been in there for a while now.”
A niggling of foreboding comes over me. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her alone. I stride across the living room and throw open my door.
No Sasha.
And her big carry-on purse is gone.
Fuck.
Me.
I check in the bathroom even though I know she won’t be there.
Gospodi. Women can never be trusted—they are always full of lies, deceit and tricks.
Unbidden, the memory of my mother’s cruel deception replays like the horror movie I can never unsee.
I know she’s lying, but I don’t want to believe it. I prefer to pretend everything is as she says.
“This is just a temporary thing, Max. I’ll be back in a week or two—a month at the longest. Be good and do as you’re told.”
The director of the orphanage puts an arm around my shoulders, gently tugging me away from her.
Panic wells. I grasp my mother’s arm and try to hold on as she pulls away from me.
The tears in her eyes glitter as proof she’s lying.
She’s not coming back.
I don’t cry because she told me not to. I am a good boy. I do as I’m told. I eat. Sleep. Sit and learn.
I wait.
I wait and wait.
Five years of pretending her words were true.
Then I stop pretending, pry my window open and run away.
I take to the streets with the gems I learned: always watch your back, rely only on yourself, and most importantly—women can’t be trusted.
Now I’ve been saddled with a bride who deals in trickery and deception, too.