She’d give up on me, and I’d truly be lost.
39
MOLLY
It wasn’t every day your housekeeper suddenly grabbed a gun out of a cereal box in the middle of rolling out pie pastry, shepherded you through the house into a wardrobe, and unlocked a secret door with a touch.
A panic room. Kirill had a full-blown panic room in his penthouse, and the entrance was in my room. Maybe I could have found it, now my wardrobe of silly dresses was reduced to ribbons on the floor, but I never had the inclination to look.
I couldn’t stop looking around. The inside was lit with fluorescent lighting, and well-stocked metal shelves lined the walls. There was even a bed. It was pretty impressive.
“Have you ever been in here before?” I asked Olga.
She shook her head, still clutching the gun as if assassins might suddenly wiggle through the air vents.“No. I learned it was here and how to enter it a few moments ago.”
“Just how to enter it? I hope you also learned how to leave it.”
“Mr. Chernov will let us out,” Olga said with conviction.
“Jesus, are you serious? You don’t know how to get out? What if something happens to him?”
Olga narrowed her eyes disapprovingly at my question.
“I’m just saying.” I tensed, wringing my hands. The very thought of Kirill getting hurt was difficult to imagine.
“Don’t just say. If Kirill Viktorovich is dead, it won’t be long until we are too.”
“That’s cheery,” I muttered.
Olga slid me a look. “You want to live without him?”
Her sly tone told me she knew much more than she let on about my twisted, tumultuous feelings regarding the man of the house.
Never.“I did for seven years.”
“And you were happy?” she pressed.
Well, she had me there. But there was one small fly in that ointment logic.“Not particularly, but I was free and alive.”
Olga shrugged, dismissing my words. “Freedom is overrated. Protected is better. Cherished, like you? It’s spoilt.”
I laughed incredulously. “Spoilt? I don’t get to leave the house without Kirill.” I’d made peace with our relationship, but Olga’s blind worship of Kirill was infuriating.
“You don’t know anything,” Olga said quietly, waving her hand at me.
“I thought you’d object to being owned,” I said quietly.
She narrowed her eyes at me. Had I gone too far by reminding her I knew her past?
“Devushka, there is a difference between being owned and being kept like a prized thoroughbred. It’s the same difference as being a slave or a princess . . . I think we both know which you are. Kirill Viktorovich loves you, which is why he keeps and protects you. You should appreciate him more.”
“You have an optimistic outlook considering your history,” I sighed, sliding down the wall to sit cross-legged.
“Thank you,” Olga said primly, tucking the gun into her pocket and sitting down.
“Did I say optimistic? I meant traumatized. I agreed to all of this, but we shouldn’t pretend any of it is normal,” I muttered.
Olga shrugged. “What is normal? My father beat my mother every day of her life. Your life with Kirill would seem like a fairy tale to her.”