Chapter 6 Marlena
The New York Times notification lit up on my phone by 6am.
I was still half asleep when I saw the headline.
“Billionaire Nikolai Volkov Engaged to Mystery Art Curator,”
My stomach dropped. Below the headline was a photo of me.
Not just any photo – a professional shot I didn't remember taking.
I was smiling, looking elegant in one of those designer dresses from my closet.
I looked like someone else entirely. The article was worse.
Nikolai Volkov, 34, CEO of Volkov Industries, has announced his engagement to Marlena Rousseau, 26, an art curator originally from Paris. The couple met six months ago at a gallery opening in SoHo and described their connection as "immediate and undeniable."
"Marlena brings light into my world," Volkov said in a statement. "I've never been more certain of anything.”
I read that line three times.
Light into his world? The man barely spoke to me.
My phone started buzzing and it didn't stop.
Text messages flooded in from numbers I didn't recognize.
Former classmates from my brief stint at art school. People I'd worked with at galleries. Even my landlord from Brooklyn.
OMG is this you?!
Marlena Rousseau??? The billionaire's fiancée???
Girl, you've been holding out on us!
I wanted to toss my phone across the room. Instead, I scrolled through the messages with numb fingers. Everyone wanted a piece of me now. Everyone wanted to know how I'd landed Nikolai Volkov.
If they only knew the truth.
A knock on my door made me jump.
"Miss Rousseau?" Irina's voice was crisp. "Mr. Volkov requires your presence for breakfast. The press will want statements, and you need to be prepared.”
I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water burn away the exhaustion.
And by the time I made my way downstairs, Nikolai was already there, reading something on his tablet.
He didn't look up when I entered.
“Sit,”
I pulled out a chair and settled into it slowly. Food appeared In front of me – eggs, toast, fruit I wouldn't eat.
"The announcement went well," Nikolai said, still not looking at me. "Your story is trending. Social media is eating it up.”
“My story,” I repeated, not looking up from the food, “You mean the lie,”
"Call it what you want." He finally looked up, those cold gray eyes assessing me. "You'll have interviews scheduled for next week. Vogue wants a feature. So does Vanity Fair."
"Interviews?" My voice cracked. "I can't –"
"You can. You will." He set down his tablet. "You signed a contract, Marlena. This is part of it. You smile, you tell our story, you play the role. Or –”
“Or Luka suffers. I know,” I said, pushing my plate away, “You've made that very clear,”
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
My phone buzzed again on the table between us. I glanced at the screen.
Luka.
Video call.
My heart stopped.
Nikolai's eyes flicked to my phone, then back to me. "Answer it. And remember – you're in love. Deliriously happy. Don't fuck this up, Marlena,”
I grabbed the phone with shaking hands and stepped into the hallway.
Luka's face filled the screen. He looked worse than yesterday and the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced.
"Mar." His voice was hoarse. "What the hell is going on?"
"Hey." I forced a smile. "You saw the announcement?”
“Saw it? It's literally everywhere. Even the nurses wouldn't stop talking about it,” He coughed and winced, “When were you going to tell me you were engaged?”
“Look, it happened fast…”
“Bullshit,” he cut in, “Who is this guy? And don't tell me he's the anonymous donor cause I'm not an idiot,”
I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted.
"Luka –"
"You're lying to me." His voice broke. "You've been lying to me about everything, haven't you? The money, the treatment, all of it."
"I'm trying to save you –"My voice broke.
"I don't want to be saved like this!" He was crying now, tears streaming down his gaunt face. "What did you do, Mar? What did you give up?”
My throat was too tight to answer.
“I met someone,” I said, “He's nice to me. He wanted to help. That's all,”
"That's all," Luka repeated, not believing a word. "You expect me to believe that some billionaire just decided to drop ten million dollars on my treatment out of the goodness of his heart?”
“Yes,”
Luka let out a bitter laugh, “You're a terrible liar, Mar,”
Then he wiped out his eyes, “But honestly, I'm too tired to fight you right now. Just promise me you're okay. And you're safe,”
"I promise." Another lie.
We hung up, and I stood there in the hallway, staring at my phone, hating myself.
When I walked back into the dining room, Nikolai was gone.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of phone calls and appointments.
Collette came back with more clothes while Julian dragged me through more burning workouts.
Irina gave me a lecture on proper table settings and which fork to use at formal dinners.
I was like a project – a doll to be dressed, posed and perfected.
By afternoon, I was loosing it.
I was fully ready to scream.
I escaped to my room and locked the door, needing just ten minutes of silence. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number.
I almost ignored it then I saw the message.
It was a photo of me in Paris, in the underground gallery.
Mid-forgery, with my paintbrush in hand and the Modigliani visible over my shoulder.
My blood turned to ice.
Below the photo, there was a single line of text that made my heart race:
I know what you did.
My hands shook as I stared at the screen.
Who sent this? Nikolai's people had found me in Paris, but this was different. This was a threat.
Another message came through.
You thought you could run. You thought you could hide behind Volkov's name. You were wrong.
I dropped the phone like it had burned me.