Caterina
Somehow, I finally manage to fall asleep. My dreams are a fractured mess of my wedding and the night that followed, of my looking over the balcony and reliving that moment where I imagined myself tumbling to my death, of waking up sweating in the bed only to realize I’m still dreaming and have it happen all over again. When I finally do wake up, I feel groggy and dazed, as if I didn’t really sleep well at all.
It’s still light outside, but the time on my phone tells me it’s getting close to dinnertime. Viktor left me alone as he promised, but I can’t imagine he’ll stay out of his own room forever. I feel clammy after the bad dreams and restless sleep, so I decide to take a shower before I get dressed for dinner.
It’s when I step into the shower that I see something that startles me.
There are products in the shower clearly not meant for Viktor—shampoo and conditioner in bottles clearly marketed to women, peach and almond shower gel, a fluffy loofah that’s clearly never been used, a brand new razor. I stare at them for a moment, trying to make sense of it. They can’t be his late wife’s. It’s one thing for the house to potentially not have been redecorated since she lived here, but keeping her toiletries would suggest a level of devotion that I haven’t gotten any sense that Viktor feels towards her. And they’re definitely not Viktor’s. Besides the clear newness of some of the items, I can see his in the shower alongside them.
Which means one thing—they were purchased for me to try to make me feel more comfortable here. Maybe. And I don’t know how to feel about that, how to reconcile it with the terse, almost angry man I’ve fought with twice today already.
He probably just had someone go out and buy things,I tell myself, reaching for the shower gel. But even if that’s true, he still had to send someone out to get them. He still had to request it. Which means a part of him, however small, is concerned for me and my happiness. My comfort.
It’s not enough.That’s my first thought, and it’s not. It can’t make up for everything he and the Bratva have done, everything they’ve taken from me, everything they represent. It can’t make up for the fact that I didn’t want to marry him, that there’s no love here, that this house can’t and never will feel like mine. But it is a very small thing, one that tells me there’s another side to the man I’ve married.
And it does, in fact, make me feel the tiniest bit better.
I linger in the shower, washing my hair and scrubbing until I feel clean and fresh again. I get dressed in the last outfit I brought with me, the same jeans and a sleeveless silk blouse, adding a diamond bracelet and stud earrings I inherited from my mother. I quickly braid my wet hair since my blow dryer isn’t here yet, and when I look under the sink, it turns up nothing. Not something Viktor planned for, I guess.
When I look at my left hand, it's startling to just see the plain thin gold band. It’s entirely different from Franco, who gave me a huge diamond for our engagement. But I can appreciate the lack of pretense. Viktor knows there’s no romance between us, no love. He could have gone through the motions, bought me a giant ring I might or might not have liked, made a show of proposing to me. But none of that would change what this really is, and he knows that. The simple ring is proof.
Now, if only he could be that pragmatic about everything in our relationship, including sex. And different bedrooms.
I know I need to hope that the IVF works quickly. If it doesn’t, Viktor will have all the excuse he needs to suggest we go about getting me pregnant in, as he put it,the old-fashioned way.And I know he’ll enjoy that excuse.
The sooner I’m pregnant, the better.
Just as I’m finished dressing, there’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” I call out, fully aware of how odd it feels to be saying that in this room that doesn’t even feel like mine.
The door opens and Viktor steps in, his gaze drifting over me. “You look very nice,” he says noncommittally, but I can see the flicker of desire in his gaze.
“I wasn’t sure how dressed up you get for dinner,” I say quietly, feeling suddenly awkward. “But this is all I brought until my things come tomorrow. I hadn’t—well, I hadn’t expected us to really even be eating together.”
Viktor smirks. “Did you think I’d keep you chained in the basement until I required your services in my bed?”
I flush at that. “No,” I snap, my voice more cutting than before. “I just didn’t expect family dinners around the table. You’ll forgive me if the stories I’ve heard about the Bratva don’t line up with that.”
“Well.” Victor smiles, and I see the small lines at the corners of his eyes, betraying his age. “You’ll find that I am more domestic than most. Dinner will be served soon, if you’d like to come along?”
It’s not really a question, but I nod, following him to the dining room. Once we’re seated, one of the staff—a girl called Bianca, I think—starts to serve dinner, setting bowls of a summery salad and a cold gazpacho in front of each of us. I would have thought that Anika and Yelena would have balked at cucumber gazpacho, but Yelena just says cheerfully: “Green! My favorite!” and digs in. Anika dips her spoon but doesn’t say a word.
“What have you girls done today?” Viktor asks, and Anika finally speaks, telling him about exploring in the garden and a story she’s reading about a girl who does just that. She doesn’t look at me as she speaks, seemingly pretending I’m not there, but I don’t really mind. It gives me a chance to watch her and her father, and what surprises me is how intently he really seems to be listening, both to her and to Yelena, as Yelena starts to tell him, a bit quietly, about her dollhouse and what the residents have been up to today.
Like the items in the shower, it gives me an insight into a different side of Viktor. He’s not a man I would have expected to find carefully listening to the details of garden explorations and dollhouse dramas. Yet, he soaks up every word, barely acknowledging when Bianca comes to deliver the next course, sliced roast, carrots, and potatoes, a surprisingly American meal.
“What?” Viktor asks, snorting a little as he sees my expression. “Did you think it was all stroganoff and borscht here? I enjoy a good Sunday roast as much as anyone.”
“You’re stupid,” Anika says suddenly, looking at me. “I can already tell.”
“Anika!” Viktor’s voice deepens as he turns back to his daughter. “Apologize to Caterina. Right now. That’s not how we speak to anyone at our table, but certainly not her. Do you remember what I said about respect?”
“Why should I?” Anika juts out her chin. “Sheisstupid. She doesn’t even know what kind of food we like.”
“Anika.” Viktor’s voice holds a clear warning. “Go to your room.”
“But I’m hungry,” she whines, looking at me accusingly, as if it’s my fault. But I see in that glance a chance to possibly try to get an inroad with her, at least. And it’s her and her sister I most want to make progress with, not Viktor.
“Viktor,” I say gently, reaching out to touch his arm. I have a sudden memory of my mother doing the same thing with my father, reaching out over the dinner table to touch his arm, in reassurance, in apology, in supplication. For the first time, more so than at the wedding or during the night that followed, I feel as though I’m actually Viktor’s wife. “Viktor, it’s alright. This is difficult for everyone. I know Anika didn’t mean to be rude. She’s simply adjusting.”