Page 18 of Sin Wager
8
MISHA
The drive to my house takes twenty minutes through the quiet streets of central Moscow. Vera sits beside me, her hands folded in her lap, occasionally glancing out the window at the passing buildings. The wine from dinner has relaxed her, made her movements softer, more trusting. I can feel her nervous energy, the way she shifts in her seat when I turn off the main road.
"Where are we going?" she asks as the streetlights become sparser.
"My home."
Iron gates part automatically as I approach. The private drive curves through mature oak trees, their branches creating shadows that dance across the windshield. Vera presses closer to the passenger window, trying to see through the darkness.
The house reveals itself gradually as we round the final bend. Three stories of glass and stone rise from manicured grounds, every window glowing with warm light. The architecture is modern but timeless, clean lines softened by natural materials. Water features flank the entrance, their gentle sounds audible even through the car windows.
I park in the circular drive beneath a portico supported by stone columns. The engine ticks as it cools, the only sound in the evening’s stillness.
"This is your house?" Vera's voice carries wonder and something else—intimidation, maybe. Fear that she doesn't belong here.
"I prefer privacy." I step out and walk around to open her door, extending my hand to help her from the car.
She takes my hand and rises slowly, her eyes never leaving the façade of the house. "It's enormous. How many people live here?"
"Just me."
"All of this for one person?"
"I believe in having space to think. To breathe." I place my hand at the small of her back and guide her toward the entrance. "Come. I want to show you something."
The front door is solid walnut, twelve feet tall and carved with subtle geometric patterns. It opens to reveal a foyer that rises two stories, dominated by a chandelier of hand-blown glass that catches and scatters light across the travertine floors.
Vera stops just inside the threshold, her mouth slightly open. "Misha…"
"You haven't seen anything yet."
I lead her through the foyer into the great room, watching her face as she takes in the space. The ceiling soars twenty feet overhead, supported by steel beams that create dramatic shadows. One entire wall consists of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the private gardens. Italian leather furniture is arranged around a fireplace carved from a single block of granite. Original paintings line the walls—not reproductions or prints, but actual canvases hand-signed by the artists themselves.
She moves to the windows and presses her palm against the glass, staring out at the illuminated gardens. A reflecting pool stretches toward a grove of birch trees, their white bark glowing in the moonlight.
"I can't believe you live here," she whispers.
"Do you approve?"
She turns back to me, and I see something shift in her expression. The nervousness is still there, but underneath it is something else—desire, maybe. Or recognition that I'm offering her a glimpse into a world she's never imagined.
"It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen."
"Would you care for a drink?" I move to the bar cart positioned near the fireplace, its crystal decanters catching the light from the flames.
"What do you recommend?"
I select a bottle of cognac, 1947 vintage, an expensive bottle too. The liquid glows amber in the firelight as I pour it into two Baccarat glasses.
"This has been waiting for the right moment."
She accepts the glass and takes a small sip, her eyes closing as the cognac warms her throat. "It's incredible. I can taste… I don't know. History."
"Complexity takes time to develop. The best things are worth waiting for."
I settle onto the leather sofa and pat the cushion beside me. She joins me, closer than strictly necessary, her thigh brushing against mine as she curls her legs beneath her.
