AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Inhaling deeply, I take one step at a time until I’m half way down the stairs and realizing that now that I’m out of the bedroom, I have no idea where to go. The house is silent, so I pick a direction and walk. I find the dining room they brought me to at breakfast surprisingly easily, but the table is empty and there’s no sign of the guys. Turning back the way I came from, I discover a den with huge comfortable looking couches and a TV that’s almost as big as the one they use at the movies, but it’s empty too.
Every door is open, except one, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s where they are. But before I can lift my fist to knock, I hear the soft patter of footsteps behind me. Spinning around, I find a woman a similar age to me, with black hair and aristocratic features. She’s stunning, in a modelesque way that makes me feel small and squat in comparison.
“They do not like to be disturbed when they are in their office,” she says with a hint of an accent.
“Oh,” I gasp, stupefied and unsure what to say or do now.
“Can I give you a tour of the house, Mrs. Belova?” Her voice is polite, but her manners do nothing to hide the bite in her tone.
“Oh, err,” I falter, shocked that even the staff know I’m now fake married. “Yeah, sure.”
Her smile says everything she can’t. That she only offered to be polite and that she really wishes I hadn’t accepted. But dutifully, she silently leads me through the house, pausing at doorways to point out rooms. When we get to the kitchen, she strides inside and then stops beside a woman stirring a pan of something that smells delicious on the stove.
“Mama, have you met Mrs. Belova?” my guide asks.
“Mrs. Belova, are you feeling better?” the older woman asks, her voice heavily accented.
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you,” I tell her, waving away her concern. “But my name is Alabama.” Stepping closer, I hold out my hand to her.
Wiping her hands on a cloth, she takes mine and grips it tightly. “Roza. You’ve already met my daughter Tanya and my husband Alexander looks after the house and grounds.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Can I do anything to help?” I offer.
Both women look at me with blatant surprise. “No, thank you. Mr. Dimitri said you didn’t have any allergies, is that correct?”
“No, not that I’m aware of,” I tell her. “Would it be okay for me to have a glass of soda or a juice or just something sweet, please?”
“Why don’t you take a seat in the den or on the patio and Tanya will bring something out to you,” Roza suggests, coolly.
“Oh, no, I can get it myself if you point me in the direction of the refrigerator. I just didn’t want to help myself without asking permission,” I say quickly.
“Ali, Baby,” Viktor says, appearing behind me and curling a strong arm around my waist.
I jolt away from his touch, but he’s quick, holding me in place, my back pressed against his chest, my butt squashed against his firm thigh.
“You look good in my shirt,” he purrs seductively against my neck, nuzzling his nose over the pulse point that’s fluttering anxiously.
“I was just looking for a soda or a juice or something,” I stammer.
“Tanya, could you get Ali some juice? We’ll be out by the pool,” Viktor says, turning me around and steering me out of the kitchen.
“I could have gotten it myself. I don’t expect her to wait on me,” I say.
“Why wouldn’t they wait on you? That’s their job.”
“Because I’m not one of you or even a guest. I’m a prisoner.”
His laugh is full of mirth and amusement. “You’re Dimi’s wife. You’re their boss.”
“No, I’m not, and I’m not sure a fake wife really counts in this situation.”
“It’s not fake, Ali. It’s completely legal and real. You’re his wife in every way, bar one, but he’ll soon rectify that, then we all get a turn.”
“Forging a marriage certificate doesn’t make me his actual wife, it means I’m his fake, digital wife,” I protest.
“Once we’ve dealt with Orlov and the rest of those assholes, you can have a very real wedding if you want one,” he says, dragging me down onto a huge outdoor sofa overlooking a pool that’s so beautiful if I wasn’t right in front of it, I’d swear it was a picture.
“I don’t want a wedding,” I gasp.
