Page 43 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

We keep the walls blue, but add pops of colors in the details. A red lampshade, warm abstract art prints on the walls, and a yellow dresser.

I’m not sure whether Matilda really likes my ideas or whether Viktor has instructed her to default to me, but she writes down everything I suggest. I mention the idea of building a small hideaway in the corner of the room—a kind of clubhouse with a child-sized door and separate lighting inside—and she makes it happen. The day after I mention it, two men are in the apartment building it. Then, I paint it and seal it while Theo spends the afternoon at an indoor play gym with his nanny, and now it’s a permanent fixture in the room. An idea I imagined, saw through, and now exists in the real world. It feels like an accomplishment.

At first, I run the ideas past Viktor, trying to ensure I’m not spending too much money, but it becomes apparent he doesn’t care. Either because he has enough money he doesn’t need to worry about a small remodel or because he trusts me. Truthfully, I think it’s both.

Viktor has killed people and done horrible things. But unlike other men in power, he’s fair and kind to those who are loyal. I’ve never heard Viktor raise his voice to his household staff or his guards unnecessarily. He treats the people around him with respect so long as they give him the same.

It makes me like him even more. Much more than I should.

On one of the last days of the bedroom remodel, I try to pull Matilda into a long conversation over a cup of coffee, but she says Viktor isn’t paying her for chitchat. I can see why Viktor likes her. Matilda is straightforward and all business. She doesn’t mince words, and I understand why Viktor has continued to rehire her for projects over the years.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” I ask.

“I’ll have to speak with Viktor first,” she says. “I’ve told him you will be fine to finish the project on your own.”

I gape at her. “Why?”

“Because you’ve done most of the design work already. Though, don’t tell Viktor that. I still expect my full paycheck at the end of this.”

Finally, I gain the confidence to ask the question I’ve been wondering for days. “Did Viktor tell you to listen to my ideas?”

Matilda stares at me for a moment and then barks out a laugh. She pushes her glasses up on her nose. “I’m the designer. Viktor doesn’t tell me what to do when it comes to the details. I listened to your ideas because they were good. I shouldn’t be surprised though. Viktor bought most of my library of design books for you, which means you’re learning from the absolute best.”

“You gave him the books for me?”

She holds up a finger. “Sold him the books. But yes, they’re mine. Keep studying the way you are, and you might be coming for my job.”

I smile, taking it as a compliment, but then Matilda’s eyes narrow for a second. Clearly, she’s not the kind of woman who is comfortable with competition.

When she leaves, I’m restless. Theo is down for a nap and Viktor is at work, so I’m not sure what to do. I was so busy helping with the finishing touches of Theo’s room and thinking about whether I could convince Viktor he needed to have something else remodeled if only to keep me busy that I only ate a few bites of the lunch that was delivered for us. Now I’m starved.

The refrigerator is full of prepared meals, things I simply need to throw in a pan or in the microwave and warm up, but I feel the strange urge to cook something. To make something for myself.

My mom played with the idea of teaching me to cook when I was a kid, but as soon as I made a mistake or asked a question, she would push me aside and take control. Then I was so busy trying to survive that I never had time to cook. Now, I have the time, and I’d like to be able to make something halfway edible.

I wasn’t joking when I told Viktor he would end up poisoned if he expected me to cook for him.

That first night in his apartment feels like a long time ago. It feels more like a dream than anything else. The fear and uncertainty I felt is a distant memory compared to how comfortable I am now.

The thought flickers in my mind that it could all disappear in a second, that the plush, expensive rug could be pulled out from under my feet in an instant, but I push the thought aside and search the kitchen until I find a small stash of cookbooks.

Most of the spines are still perfectly intact and the books crack as I open them, showing Viktor has never once flipped through them.

I look at pictures of dishes that look like they belong on the menus of the nicest restaurants in the city. They’re far beyond anything I’m capable of making.

Finally, I find a picture of a homestyle macaroni and cheese recipe with bread crumbs and herbs. I’ve made boxed macaroni and cheese. How much different could homemade mac and cheese be? Melting cheese? Easy.

I lay the book flat on the counter and move to the pantry, trying to find all the ingredients I need.

Flour—check, though I can’t imagine what that would be for.

Milk, cheddar cheese, cream cheese, Dijon mustard.

I stack the ingredients on the island, trying to imagine how mustard belongs in macaroni and cheese, and wonder if I could make this meal for Viktor.

It would be a thank you of sorts. For his kindness.

If I could go back a few weeks and tell the past me that I would be grateful to the man who flashed a gun at me and locked me away in his apartment, I’d think I was going insane. But here I am, wanting to take care of him in a small way to thank him for taking care of me. Or mostly, for taking care of Theo.

---