Page 42 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

Molly

Weeks pass, and I start to forget this arrangement began as imprisonment. Even at the very start, it felt like being in a luxury prison. Like the places where they send the rich and famous when they neglect to pay their taxes. I can’t really call it a prison when I spend an hour each evening soaking in a claw-foot tub with a glass of wine. And as the days pass, it feels more and more like home.

That word holds such mixed feelings for me.

Even as a kid, my home was tainted. Discolored by the fighting of my parents, by being placed in the middle of their arguments and used as a threat. They were constantly telling one another that they would never see me again if … fill in condition here. After a while, I was surprised the threats worked at all since neither of them seemed to want me around even when I was.

So maybe I just don’t know what a home feels like. Maybe I can never know because I’ve never had it, but being at Viktor’s house feels comfortable.

There is food in the refrigerator, clothes in my closet, and toys for Theo. When Viktor comes home for the day, he lies on the floor with Theo and plays games. Then, when Theo goes to bed, Viktor finds me. Usually in my room. Sometimes in the kitchen. Never in Viktor’s room or his office. I still don’t go in those rooms. Mixing that part of his life with what we have feels dangerous, and I don’t want to break the illusion.

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? An illusion.

I like to think otherwise, especially when Viktor is biting my neck and swirling his tongue over all the sensitive places of my body. When he’s breathing between my legs and pushing into me, I like to think this could be forever. I like to think that I won’t ever have to stand in line at the shelter again or deal with men trying to take advantage of my circumstances. When Viktor is hovering over me, wrapping me in the woodsy smell of him, I let myself believe that this could be the beginning of my new life. But it can’t be. Viktor said as much.

This is temporary.

So, I decide to take advantage of it for as long as I can.

I relax and eat my fill and enjoy the hard lines of Viktor’s body without guilt. I take solace in his warmth and the comfort he has provided for me and my son and vow not to waste a second.

Viktor brings in a nanny to take care of Theo part-time. The first time she came to take him to the park, I almost couldn’t let him go.

What if she didn’t bring him back? What if it was a trick?

But I pushed through my fear and let him go, pacing the living room until he returned safely ninety minutes later.

Since then, I’ve eased up slightly, growing more comfortable with our arrangement, trusting that Viktor isn’t trying to steal Theo away and discard me like trash.

So, when Theo is busy with the nanny, I read through the interior design books that keep appearing in the living room. I know Viktor is behind it, but we don’t discuss it. I’m afraid it will stop if I do.

I take notes and learn and try not to get lost in the pangs of sadness that overwhelm me when I think about what my life could have been if I’d gone to school and earned my degree.

I could have a job as a designer. I wouldn’t live in a house like this one, but I could be paid to design them and that would be more than enough for me.

Though I also wouldn’t have Theo. And that has always been the saving grace, the thing that brings me back from the edge of despair again and again. I would never trade a single minute with him for a degree or a job or a house. He is worth everything I’ve had to give up, though sometimes, I wish I hadn’t been forced to choose. I wish I could have had both.

After we’d been living with Viktor for two weeks, he introduced me to his interior designer—a middle-aged woman with a sharp white bob haircut and dark-framed glasses.

“I thought Theo deserved a proper bedroom,” Viktor said.

“But he has a bedroom.” His bedroom is large with a full-size bed and a walk-in closet full of clothes and toys.

The designer clicked her tongue and shook her head. “A bed doesn’t make it a bedroom just as hair doesn’t make it a hairstyle. Artistry makes the difference.”

She spoke in a clipped way, like she was in a hurry, but when she got to Theo’s room, she took her time marking down the dimensions. She stood in the doorway and sketched out her ideas with an authoritative finger wagging through the air, outlining invisible furniture and lights I couldn’t see.

“You’re the mother.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” I said, stepping forward, hands folded behind my back.

“Then, you’ll help me.” Again, not a question.

So, I did. And ever since, I have been.

I eat up every second of time I spend with Matilda, not wasting a single second. I want to learn as much as I possibly can from her, hoping the experience will help me become a designer myself one day.

The room is nearly finished now. I replace the full-size bed with a more manageable twin, giving Theo room to play with blocks and puzzles in the middle of the room on a short orange and yellow rug.

---