“I’m good.” My smile leaks through my words, then I remember why I’m making this call. “Good but confused.”
Niko laughs, a soft, carefree sound. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Do you know Viktoria Kvitko?”
“Who?”
“Viktoria Kvitko, the model. Do you know her.”
“I know of her?” Reticent. That tone was a little cagey, right? “Why do you ask?”
“Because she wore one of my dresses, and the website has sold out.”
“That’s fabulous, darling.”
“What I’m asking is, did you have anything to do with it?” His pause feels like a tiny row of dots, the ellipsis in a text message. In other words, I’m waiting for the blanks to be filled in.
“You want to know—”
“If Viktoria Kvitko is a new girlfriend or an old one.” Ack! I could bite off my tongue.
“I’ve never even met the woman.” His voice is silky with self-satisfaction.
“You didn’t have anything to do with this?”
“With your website selling out? No. If it sold out, that’s because of your talent. Your skill.”
“It sold out because she wore it,” I persist.
“Because of your design, because you know how to make women feel beautiful.”
“Stop buttering me up.”
“Now, there’s an image.”
“Niko, if you had anything to do with this, just tell me.”
“I haven’t, and I’m pleased it has. We’re having a very different conversation than the one I’d imagined we’d be having.”
“About butter?”
“About money,” he replies with a chuckle.
“Don’t you worry. We still have that to discuss,” I retort, sort of, how dare you make me a wealthy woman!
Excuse me while I allow my diamond shoes to chafe a little.
“I look forward to it. Tonight?”
“I hope your jet is stocked with lots of snacks because we still don’t have a kitchen.” My outward reply is prickly while inside I feel sort of rosy, especially when he laughs. Home. My husband is coming home to me.
42
Isla
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
Life goes on, and it’s good. The boys settle back into their daily routine, Niko’s presence slotting into their lives like he’s always been a part of it. The house continues its transformation from millstone to stylish home, and somehow still feels like an allegory of my life. I feel like I’m also undergoing a huge shift. Where before, everything felt weighty and stagnant, I now feel light. Not that this change has come easily—it’s taken thought and effort. Acceptance, I suppose. I’ve never been looked after before. But money and the trappings of wealth could’ve easily felt like a cage, until I realized that it’s just an aside. The real wealth comes from being the center of someone’s thoughts, the person they love most in the world. But I suppose, in a way, I do feel caged, but it’s the fun kind of cage. Soft velvet cushions and supple leather handcuffs.
And while his wealth has provided me with a sense of security that I’ve never felt before, it’s the little things I delight in. The texts. The phone calls to check in. How I start my day with coffee in bed and a hot man between my legs. At least, when Niko is home. Because we don’t live in each other’s pockets. He still has an empire to run, and I have my responsibilities in Scotland. We spend our days apart, sometimes nights, but when we come together, nothing else matters but us. Niko spends as much time in Scotland as he can, and sometimes the boys and I fly to London for the weekend. They say they love the London house almost as much as they love their uncle’s castle, but I think it’s mainly the lure of Arsenal for Hugh. And for Archie, probably his access to Uber Eats.
“Come on, Gertie, move your fat bum.” Hefting a grocery bag over her curious nose, I press the front door closed with my foot. Or at least I try to.
“It’s me. It’s just me,” says a familiar voice from the other side.
“Tom.” I wondered when he’d resurface. He hadn’t once arranged to see the boys since that afternoon in Kilblair village—my skin tightens and bristles whenever I think of our last interaction. He’d called them a few times and made his excuses over a series of phone calls. Weirdly, the boys hadn’t seemed at all troubled at that. The passage of time doesn’t mean much to Archie at his age, and Hugh seems to have lowered his expectations since his birthday. “I suppose you’d better come in.” That we’d better get this over with. I turn for the kitchen, hefting the heavy bag over my arm, knowing from experience I can expect no help from Tom.
“This place looks different.” His gaze flits around the light and airy kitchen, his voice more begrudging than impressed as I maneuver my way around Gertie’s lumbering form to set the bag down next to my new butler’s sink.
“I assume that was a compliment.” The new kitchen gleams, not quite white but a shade called “tansy,” according to Henrick, the designer. The marble countertops reflect the sunlight spilling in from the garden, a wall of glass doors now in the place of the old window. As I begin to pull bread and milk out from the bag, Tom slides off his Barbour jacket and dumps it on the new island. He pulls out one of the wicker stools as though this kitchen, this life, is still his.