24
CORA
On my long trek back across the lawn, I decide to call Francia. I already have a stomachache from lying to one friend. I might as well go for a double header.
But she doesn’t answer. I try to tell myself that doesn’t mean anything. Ivan’s men are watching over her. She’s safe. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
I fire off a text instead.
Today was insane. I don’t know what you know, but…yeah. Call me when you get a chance. I’m okay. I want to make sure you are, too.
Since she didn’t answer my call, I don’t expect a quick response. But before I can even pocket my phone, it buzzes.
FRANCIA: I’m okay. But apparently my apartment isn’t safe? These people are telling me they know you, and I should trust them? WHAT IS GOING ON?
Lying to her is going to be significantly harder. Jorden was easily roped into the faux romanticism of the whole thing. Danger amid a whirlwind romance and all that jazz. Francia has always been more practical.
CORA: You can trust them. There’s too much to explain, but hopefully this will be over soon and you can go home.
FRANCIA: Did something happen at the party?
I nervously tap my thumbs on the edges of the phone. Ivan should have given me a script for this. Or he should have handled these conversations himself. I have no idea what I’m allowed to say, but I know one small slip-up could mean Francia no longer has the protection she needs.
CORA: What do you know about Ivan Pushkin?
FRANCIA: I know he showed up at the restaurant this morning to talk to you. Did something happen last night?
Everything happened last night. More than I want to explain to her over text.
Before I can formulate a response, another text from Francia vibrates in.
FRANCIA: If you’re getting married, tell me now.
She knows more about the party last night than I thought she would. She didn’t mention it was some matchmaking thing when she sent me off under her name. Probably because she didn’t think it was important. What would someone like Ivan Pushkin want with someone like me?
The question echoes around all of the deep, dark places of my brain.
What does he see in someone like me?
Nothing, apparently. I’m just the bait.
CORA: I can’t explain everything right now. I’m safe, and I’m making sure you are, too. I’ll tell you more when I can.
Before the guilt can slither under my skin, I silence the phone and slide it back in my pocket.
As soon as I set foot on the brick patio, the door from the kitchen opens and Niles steps outside. I can tell he has been waiting for me.
“Mrs. Pu—Cora,” he corrects himself deftly. “A few of the things I’ve ordered for you have arrived. I wanted to let you know in case you wanted to unpack them yourself.”
“Already? It’s only been a few hours.”
His smile is slight, but proud. “I have a wonderful working relationship with many designers and boutiques. They were happy to put something together on short notice for Mr. Pushkin’s new bride.”
Bride. I’ll never get used to hearing that word. Certainly not when it’s aimed in my direction.
“You really didn’t have to go to all the trouble for me, Niles.”
“Of course I did,” he says. “It was my pleasure, but more than that, Ivan insisted.”
Appearances, I tell myself. This is just about appearances.
Everything we’re doing is for the charade. It will be more believable that a man like Ivan could be slumming it with a girl like me if I’m wearing the right clothes. As a bonus, a whole slew of shopkeepers and designers now know Ivan Pushkin is engaged. The word is spreading.
All part of his plan.
I swallow down my panic and force a smile to my face. “Thank you so much, Niles. I’ll be inside in a minute.”
He bows and slips away.
I go back and forth for a few moments on what I want to do, but in the end, exhaustion wins out. I’ll unpack and then take a nap. Everything will feel more manageable after a bit of rest.
I take one long look at the backyard and then steel myself as I walk through the doors into the kitchen.
Niles has disappeared and the kitchen is empty. There’s a tray of fruit and cheese left on the counter. It reminds me of going to open houses with my mom, back before she married my stepfather and after my biological dad left. I can’t count how many stale chocolate chip cookies, tiny pickles, and lukewarm finger sandwiches we pilfered from real estate agents who would never get our business.
I take a cheese square for old times’ sake and nibble on it as I walk out of the kitchen.
I cut across the formal living room and am almost to the entryway when I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs. I freeze. It’s too late to run back to the kitchen—whoever is coming would see me retreating. But I can’t force myself to keep walking into some unknown social situation.
Then a set of strong thighs come into view. Followed by a devastatingly tapered waist wrapped in a tight gray t-shirt. I don’t need to keep looking to know this body is topped with a square jaw and molten amber eyes.
Ivan jogs down the stairs.
He looks like he’s in a hurry. Maybe he’ll breeze right out the door. Maybe he won’t see me.
I stay still, watching him descend the stairs and start to turn in my direction. But before he can see me, a female voice cuts through the quiet.
“Why haven’t you called me?”
A woman steps into the doorway. Her back is to me, but she has an hourglass shape and dark, wavy hair that falls to her mid-back. She’s in a tall pair of wedges and a breezy summer dress. It doesn’t take a detective to recognize that she is gorgeous.
Nor to see how Ivan’s face lights up when he sees her.
The sight of his genuine smile nearly knocks me backwards. Straight, white teeth behind full lips.
My God in heaven above, is that a dimple in his right cheek?
The heat stirring in my core is immediately doused when the woman throws herself into Ivan’s arms…and he hugs her back.
“I’ve been busy,” he murmurs into her dark hair. “But I’m fine.”
“And how the hell was I supposed to know that?” She pulls back and squeezes his elbows as if she’s making sure they’re still properly attached. “Yasha told me there was a shooting and then immediately stopped responding. You need to talk to him about his phone etiquette.”
Ivan rolls his eyes. “I need to talk to him about a lot of things. I had it all handled. He shouldn’t have worried you over nothing.”
Her hand reaches out to stroke his cheek. Ivan ducks away, but she forces the contact, patting his face. “I’m always going to worry about you, Ivan. I love you.”
I swore to myself that I didn’t care how many women Ivan had been with or would be with. It’s none of my business. He is going to get married one day and have children with another woman. None of that is my business.
Because this is pretend.
We are pretending.
No matter how many ways I explain it to myself, though, it doesn’t change the fact that my jealousy is very, very real.
“Oh,” the woman says. “And who has been in my room? There are clothes on the bed and my closet is a mess. Niles is slipping up with the cleaning around here.”
Her room? I turn to leave before I do something I’ll regret, but Ivan’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“That was Cora. She’s in the living room, if you want to meet her.”
I mouth a curse and spin around, screwing my face into a smile.
Ivan swoops into the room, his arm around the woman’s shoulders. Even from the back, I knew she was beautiful. Now, there is no doubt.
She has a heart-shaped face and rosy apple cheeks. Her lashes are long enough that they might still be attached to the goddess who must have bestowed them on her.
I can handle a lot, but being introduced to my fake husband’s mistress is pushing me a wee bit beyond my comfortable limit.
“Cora,” Ivan rumbles. His voice is deep and casual. He doesn’t sound guilty at all. “I’d like you to meet—”
“I’m Cora,” I interrupt, holding my hand out to the woman. “I’m Ivan’s fiancée.”
What in the hell has come over me? Who am I?
I glance at Ivan. His mouth is a tight line. The dimple in his right cheek is making an encore appearance for a very different reason.
Screw it. He didn’t want me to tell her? Then he shouldn’t have brought her here.
I expect the woman to be upset, but she’s smirking. Actually…she’s shaking like she wants to laugh, but is holding it back.
“Nice to meet you, Cora. I’m Anya.” Her hand is silky smooth in mine. She’s never done a day of work in her life. “Ivan’s sister.”
My running list of “Reasons Why This She-Devil Is The Absolute Worst And Deserves A Fiery Death” freezes mid-scroll. If this was a cartoon, my eyes would bug out of my head.
“Sister,” I breathe. “You’re his…sister. You’re siblings.”
“And you’re his fiancée!” She elbows Ivan in the side. “That would’ve been nice to know, too.”
Ivan mumbles through a half-hearted excuse, but I’m so overcome with relief that I’m not paying attention.
The guest room wasn’t for a harem of sexual partners. It was for his sister.
The knot in my stomach eases. My chest doesn’t feel as tight. But the relief is chased by a bolt of panic because I shouldn’t feel relieved at all.
None of this is my business and I can’t afford to care about my fake husband.