Chapter 9 Marlena
By day three of media training, I wanted to scream.
"Chin up, shoulders back, smile softer – no, not that soft, you look sedated." The woman's name was Patricia, and she spoke like a drill sergeant in Chanel. "When they ask about your background, you deflect with charm. Watch."
She demonstrated, her face transforming into this perfectly pleasant mask. "Oh, you know, I've always been private about my past. What matters is the future Nikolai and I are building together."
I tried to mimic her but I failed miserably.
"You look constipated," Patricia said flatly.
"I feel constipated." I said.
"Mrs. Volkov, this is not a joke. You will be on national television next week. Vogue, then Good Morning America, then –"
"I know the schedule." I'd memorized it. Infact I’d nightmares about it.
Patricia sighed like I was personally ruining her life. "Again. From the top."
We'd been at this for six hours. Six hours of smiling until my face hurt, rehearsing answers to questions I didn't want to answer and learning how to be someone I wasn't.
Mrs. Volkov.
The name still felt foreign. It was like a costume that didn't fit right.
By the time Patricia finally left, it was past eight PM. My head pounded, and my jaw ached from forcing fake smiles.
Irina had left dinner on the dining room table with a note: Mr. Volkov will be late. Business meeting in Midtown.
I ate alone, as usual, then wandered back to my floor.
The penthouse was too quiet.
I'd been here a week and still hadn't explored most of it. I hadn't dared to, really, with Irina always watching, Anton always lurking, cameras probably everywhere but tonight, Irina was gone. Anton was downstairs and Nikolai was in Midtown.
I was alone.
The thought came unbidden: What are you hiding, Nikolai?
I'd signed a contract to marry a man I knew nothing about. A man who kept an entire floor locked away from me, who watched me on cameras, who knew everything about my past while revealing nothing about his own.
What was on that forty-sixth floor?
And more importantly, what was on the forty-fifth?
His private residence. I knew I wasn't supposed to enter without permission.
My heart raced as I stood at the bottom of the stairs.
This was stupid. If he caught me, I'd be in big trouble but I was already climbing.
The forty-fifth floor was darker than mine, more masculine. It had charcoal walls, dark wood floors, modern furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable.
There were no personal touches. No photos. Nothing that said a human being actually lived here.
I moved through the space carefully, hyperaware of every sound until I found the study.
The door was slightly ajar. Light spilled through the crack.
I shouldn't. I really, really shouldn't.
I pushed it open.
The study was all dark wood and leather, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a desk that probably cost more than a car. Papers were scattered across the surface which was unusual for Nikolai, who seemed pathologically organized.
I moved closer, my pulse thundering in my ears as I looked at the papers. They were financial reports, contract negotiations. Nothing interesting.
Then I saw the filing cabinet in the corner. There were three drawers, all closed.
I tried the top one. Locked.
The second one was also locked but the third slid open.
Inside were neatly labeled folders containing information on business acquisitions, real estate holdings and the Volkov Industries annual reports.
Nothing that explained who Nikolai actually was beneath the cold exterior. I was about to close it when I noticed something wedged in the back.
It was an old and faded photograph. I pulled it out carefully.
It showed a beautiful woman with dark-hair and kind eyes. She was standing beside a teenage boy who looked uncomfortable in a suit.
Nikolai. Younger, less sharp, but unmistakably him.
Was she his mother?
I flipped the photo over. On the back, there was a short write up in faded ink: Mama and Kolya, 2009.
Kolya. A nickname.
Before I could look closer, I heard the elevator open.
Panic seized my chest. He was home.
I shoved the photo back into the drawer, but my hands were shaking so badly it fell to the floor instead. I snatched it up, crammed it in the drawer, and closed it as quietly as I could then I ran but I didn't make it far.
"Going somewhere?"
I froze in the hallway.
Nikolai stood at the top of the stairs, his tie loosened, his jacket slung over one arm. He looked tired but alert and his gray eyes pinned me in place.
"I was just –" My mind raced for an excuse. "Looking for you."
"In my study?" He moved closer, each step deliberate. "How convenient, since that's exactly where I keep myself hidden."
Sarcasm dripped from every word.
"The door was open," I said, which wasn't technically a lie.
"Was it?" He stopped a few feet away, studying me. "How careless of me."
We both knew it wasn't careless. Nothing about Nikolai was careless.
He'd left it open on purpose.
It was a test and I'd failed.
"I'm sorry," I said, trying to sound sincere. "I shouldn't have –"
"No, you shouldn't have." He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne. "But you did anyway. Why?"
"Curiosity."
"Curiosity." He tilted his head. "About what?"
"You." The word came out before I could stop it. "I don't know anything about you. You know everything about me, but I don't even know where you grew up, who your family was, why you –"
"Why I what?" His voice dropped lower to a dangerous tone.
"Why you need a fake wife badly enough to blackmail someone into it."
For a long moment, he just looked at me then he et out a short, bitter laugh.
"You want to know about me?" He moved even closer, backing me against the wall. "Here's what you need to know: I'm a man who gets what he wants, no matter the cost. I don't do this –" He gestured between us. " –feelings, or confessions, or sharing my tragic backstory."
"Why not?"
"Because it's none of your fucking business. You're here to play a role, Marlena. Not to psychoanalyze me." He spat.
"Maybe I don't want to just play a role." I met his gaze, even though my heart was racing. "Maybe I want to understand who I'm supposed to be married to."
"You want to understand me?" He braced one hand against the wall beside my head, leaning in. "Fine. I'm the man who will destroy anyone who gets in my way. I'm the man who spent fifteen years building an empire with one goal. I'm the man who will use you, break you, and discard you the moment you stop being useful."
His face was inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him.
"And right now," he continued, his voice rough, "I'm the man who's trying very hard not to do something we'd both regret."
My breath caught. The air between us was electric, dangerous.
"Then don't," I whispered.
His eyes darkened. "Don't what?"
"Don't try so hard."
For a second, I thought he might actually kiss me. His gaze dropped to my mouth and his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me then he stepped back abruptly.
"Go to your floor, Marlena."
"Nikolai –"
"Now." The sharp tone of finality was cutting.
I turned and walked away but as I reached the stairs, his voice stopped me.
"And Marlena?" I turned. He stood in the hallway, his face back to that cold mask. "Stay out of my study. Next time, I won't be so understanding."
"What did you find?" I asked suddenly, boldly. "When you investigated me? What made you choose me?"
He was silent for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he said, "You looked like someone who had something to lose. That made you perfect."
The words hit like a slap.
I went downstairs without responding.
In my room, I locked the door and leaned against it, my heart still racing.
What the hell was that?
The way he'd looked at me. The way his voice had gone
rough. The way he'd almost kissed me.
No. I was imagining things.
Nikolai didn't want me. He wanted Viktor. I was just the bait but then why had he looked at me like that?