Chapter 40 The Jealousy Problem
The next three days were a masterclass in torture.
Lena settled into the estate with the ease of someone who had once called it home. She appeared at breakfast in perfect outfits, made charming conversation with everyone, and treated Dima with the kind of polished warmth that was somehow worse than coldness.
Dima, for his part, was the perfect host. He asked about her work, her family, her plans. He laughed at her jokes—genuinely laughed, that unguarded sound Anya had only heard a handful of times. He was warm, attentive and present.
And Anya watched it all with a smile fixed on her face and something ugly twisting in her chest of something warm which was somehow worse.
She told herself it meant nothing, that this was the performance, mask and necessary pretense to keep Lena from suspecting anything. But watching Dima lean toward Lena at dinner, listening to her story with genuine interest, Anya's fork paused halfway to her mouth.
The food went cold on her plate.
That night, she couldn't sleep. She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the evening. The way Lena's eyes lit up when she made Dima laugh. The way Dima's shoulders relaxed, just slightly, in her presence. The easy familiarity between them, built over three years of shared history.
He doesn't mean to destroy things, he just does.
Lena's words echoed in her mind, a warning she couldn't shake.
The next morning, Anya avoided everyone. She claimed a headache, skipped breakfast, hid in the library with a book she couldn't read. The fire crackled while the clock ticked, her mind was somewhere else.
At noon, a knock came at the door.
"Anya?" Dima said with a low voice, "can I come in?"
She wanted to say no, wanted to protect herself from whatever conversation was coming but her mouth betrayed her.
"Come in."
He entered, closing the door behind him. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes with his usually perfect hair slightly disheveled. He crossed to the fireplace, standing across from her chair, not sitting.
"You've been avoiding me."
"I've been resting." The lie was thin, pathetic.
"Anya." His voice was gentle, but firm. "Look at me."
She looked, his eyes were dark like always.
"Is it Lena?" he said quietly. "Is she bothering you?."
"She's not bothering me." The words came out too fast, too sharp. "She's lovely and perfect, you two seem…." She stopped, unable to finish.
"Seem what?"
"Comfortable and happy”, the word felt weird coming from her mouth.
He moved closer, kneeling before her chair, his hands rested on the arm framing of the chair but he wasn't touching.
"Lena is the past," his voice was soft and certain. "A past I ended to protect her, I've mourned and made peace which means she meant nothing to me."
Anya's eyes burned. "Then why do you laugh with her like that? Why do you look at her like…"
"Like what?"
"Like she matters."
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher.
"She does matter because she mattered for three years, I can't pretend otherwise." He leaned closer, his eyes searching hers. "But she's not you, what I feel for her is memory but what I feel for you is.." He stopped, shaking his head. "I don't have words for what I feel for you."
"You didn't tell me she was coming," Anya said quietly. "You didn't prepare me for.." she gestured vaguely "this."
"I didn't know until the call, I told you that." His jaw tightened, "and I've been trying to protect you from it, her and any complications.”
"By pretending she doesn't affect you?"
"By pretending you don't affect me." His voice cracked. "Every moment I'm with her, I'm thinking of you. Every laugh, every smile, every polite word are all for you, to keep you safe.”
Anya stared at him, searching for the lie but she only found exhaustion and love.
"I don't care," she whispered. "I don't care about the reasons. I just…. I can't watch you with her or pretend it doesn't hurt."
He reached for her face, but she pulled back, his hand hovered in the air between them.
"Yes." His voice was quiet, accepting. "You do care."
The words hung between them, simple and devastating.
Anya's eyes were filled with tears, "I don't want to, I want to be the strong partner you need, not some jealous girl who can't handle.."
"You're not some jealous girl." He caught her hand, finally touching her. "You're a woman who loves me, love is messy and complicated which makes it hurt." He squeezed her fingers. "I know, I feel it too."
"Then what do we do?"
He was silent for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on her hand.
"We survive this week by playing our parts and when Lena leaves, we go back to us." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Can you do that?"
She looked at him—this man who had loved before, who had lost before and who was asking her to trust him through the storm.
"I don't know," she whispered honestly.
He nodded slowly, accepting her honesty. He stood, releasing her hand.
"Then take tonight, think about it and decide what you need." He moved toward the door, then paused, looking back. "Whatever you decide Anya, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."
He left, the door closing softly behind him.
Anya sat alone by the fire, his words echoing in the silence.
She didn't know if she could do this, if what he said was the truth and if she was strong enough to watch him with another woman, even knowing the reasons.
But she also didn't know if she could walk away.
She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart race.
Lena was the past, Dima had said so but the past had a way of reaching into the present, of shaping everything that came after.