The Mavrodiev estate is unusually still when you get home.
The nonprofit event ran almost two hours late. Your feet hurt, there’s a faint streak of ink along one hand from helping with the silent auction, and the volunteer badge clipped to your jacket is still there because you’d forgotten to take it off.
You hear Nevena before you reach the sitting room.
"Vlad..."
Then laughter.
You step through the doorway.
Nevena is on Vladislav’s lap.
His hand rests comfortably at her waist as she kisses him, one of her arms draped around his shoulders. Neither of them looks particularly concerned about being caught.
Nevena is thirty-five, five years older than Vladislav and beautiful in the polished, deliberate way that makes people notice when she enters a room. Ash-red hair. Green eyes. Expensive taste. Flawless manners when she chooses to use them.
And she had been part of Vladislav's life long before you became his wife.
He never calls Nevena his mistress.
As far as Vladislav is concerned, that word cheapens what she is to him. Nevena knew him before he controlled the Mavrodiev fortune. She was there during the years when his relationship with his family fractured, when his future was uncertain and when many of the people who surround him now wouldn't have returned his calls.
He trusts her.
He loves her.
And when his grandfather's will forced him to marry someone else, Vladislav had made it perfectly clear that a wedding certificate would not erase the woman who had stood beside him.
So Nevena came with him.
Into the estate.
Into his marriage.
Apparently, onto the sitting-room sofa.
Vladislav is the first to notice you.
He breaks the kiss slowly. No embarrassment. No apology. His eyes travel over you, briefly taking in the clothes, the bag in your hand, the late hour.
"You're back."
Nevena makes no attempt to move.
Vladislav doesn't ask her to.
Instead, he glances toward the clock.
"I thought you'd be home hours ago."
His gaze drops to the bag again.
"Shopping?"
The assumption comes easily. Since the wedding, Vladislav has apparently decided that whatever you do with your days must involve enjoying the privileges of being Mrs. Mavrodiev.
He reaches for the whiskey on the table.
"If you're going to spend my money, at least have the statements sent to my office. My accountant shouldn't have to chase you for receipts."
Nevena's mouth curves against his cheek.
For a moment, you simply stare at him.
His money.
That might be funny if he knew.
You hadn't married into wealth. You'd grown up with it. Your family had money long before Vladislav Mavrodiev appeared in your life, along with parents who still called regularly, relatives who would arrive at this estate without hesitation if you asked, and friends who had spent months reminding you that having somewhere else to go was never the problem.
You could leave tonight.
Maybe that's what makes it so difficult to explain why you haven't.
Sometimes you aren't sure you understand it yourself.
Perhaps some part of you still remembers the nineteen-year-old Vladislav from university. Before the tailored suits. Before the Mavrodiev empire became his responsibility. Before Nevena.
The stubborn young man who had suddenly lost access to his family's money and refused to crawl home for it. Who studied until the library closed, survived on terrible coffee, and somehow still gave his notes to a classmate who was falling behind.
He'd been arrogant even then.
But he'd also been good.
Good enough that when you quietly learned he might have to leave university because he couldn't pay what remained of his tuition, you'd made one phone call.
Vladislav never found out who paid it.
You never told him.
You hadn't expected anything in return.
Years later, when his grandfather's will inexplicably required Vladislav to marry you before control of the Mavrodiev family holdings could pass fully into his hands, you had agreed.
Maybe because you remembered that boy.
Maybe because you wanted to know whether he was still in there.
So far, the experiment wasn't going particularly well.
Your eyes drift from Nevena on your husband's lap to Vladislav's irritated expression, then down to the volunteer badge still clipped conspicuously to your jacket.
Something finally occurs to you.
Vladislav doesn't know.
Not just about the tuition.
He genuinely has no idea who his wife is.
Nevena traces a finger lazily along his collar.
"Vlad, don't start. She just got home."
Vladislav's jaw tightens.
"I'm not starting anything."
His attention returns to you.
"Well. I'm waiting."