Page 28 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

"Don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay?" I almost plead.

Another telling silence.

"No, I promise."

"I love you."

"I love you too, Sis."

Despite the bitterness of our confessions, Raphaël’s call has lightened my heart. I feel lighter for having been able to talk to him. With a bit more courage, I get up to face the dinner waiting for me.

Also, it’s time to apply Echo’s advice.

I stop in front of the wardrobe Ruslan had delivered this week. A complete collection for all official events, delivered just this morning by one of the rising stars of Parisian haute couture—luxurious uniforms designed to blend me into his world. Yet, I can't help but notice that every piece, from the clothes to the shoes and accessories, perfectly matches my taste: elegant and understated, with just the right touch of refinement. Did he choose them himself? I shake my head, dismissing the thought. A man as busy as Ruslan wouldn’t take the time to pick out clothes for his wife. Stop dreaming. Yet another memory creeps into my mind—the pot of bulbs he gave me. I know from Asli that he prepared it himself and that Laurent nearly had a heart attack when he saw potting soil on his pristine countertop.

I think about our hosts tonight, Akim and Nicolas. Though we’ve only crossed paths a few times, I had enjoyed their company. What do they know about our relationship? Are they aware of Natasha? I shouldn’t care what they think, but the truth is, I refuse to be that woman—pitied, looked at with sorrow. A dull pain, a mix of anger and bitterness, tightens my stomach at the thought.

A sigh escapes me. It doesn’t matter. I’ve chosen to play the game, to keep up appearances. So I take my time getting ready, even applying a touch of makeup. Then, with a measured movement, I open the garment bag, finding a small note inside:

“For Saturday night. Though you need nothing to be the most beautiful in my eyes. Ruslan.”

My fingers brush over the delicate fabric of the pearl-gray dress, and my heart wavers slightly. I slip it on carefully, as if handling a fragile dream. For a moment, standing before the mirror, I freeze. Who is this woman staring back at me? The silk chiffon drapes over my body like a delicate veil, embroidered with pearly gray floral patterns. My silhouette takes on an ethereal elegance, almost otherworldly. The fabric clings to my form with a grace I never thought I possessed.

It’s strange, this feeling washing over me. After years of blending into the background, mastering the art of going unnoticed, I find myself liking this elevated version of me.

Is Ruslan going to like what he sees? It’s crazy how pathetic I can be, always trying to please a man who betrayed me, but that’s just how the heart works. You can’t reason with it. I never stopped loving Ruslan, even after discovering his betrayal. And I’ll admit it, I’m clinging to a confession he made to me the night of our wedding:

"... I haven’t touched her since our first time together."

And I believe him.

Does that make this whole situation less painful?

No, of course not.

Because he manipulated me and made me believe he loved me, when it was all just a lie.

My hands tremble slightly as they rest on the door handle. I take a deep breath, trying to control the wave of conflicting emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

Ruslan is already in the living room, his elegant silhouette outlined against the floor-to-ceiling window. He turns at the sound of my footsteps, and time seems to freeze. His gaze, usually so controlled, so unreadable, flickers with raw emotion. Wonder, desire, longing—all flashing across his features. I have to make a violent effort not to run to him and give in to what we both want. But my feet remain frozen as he devours me with his eyes. For a moment, I drown in his dark gaze, and the world around us fades away.

15. Dinner with Friends

RUSLAN

When Sophia steps out of her room, my breath catches. She is stunning in that pearl-gray silk dress, the fabric hugging her curves and revealing her endless legs. The airy material enhances her satin skin and the silky highlights in her chestnut hair. Madame Bertha has worked wonders. My little country mouse has transformed into a breathtaking woman—beautiful and utterly desirable. I drink her in, unable to look away. We lose ourselves in each other before I manage to speak, my throat suddenly dry.

"You look magnificent."

Her eyes widen in surprise, and I realize what a lousy husband I must be if my wife doesn’t even know how much she takes my breath away. Her gaze drifts over my tailored tuxedo, lingers on my broad shoulders before returning to my face. A flicker of uncertainty crosses her eyes before she regains control.

"Thank you for the dress. It’s beautiful," she murmurs, her voice detached, though I know she doesn’t truly feel that way.

I take a deliberate step toward her, invading her space. Her scent is already intoxicating me.

"It suits you perfectly."

A shiver runs through her as I lean in to adjust a loose strand of her hair. My fingers brush against her neck, and I feel her tremble. She steps back, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. The intensity of that brief contact leaves me dizzy, craving more. The tension between us is almost tangible, heavy with unspoken words and suppressed desires. I’m about to give in to the magnetic pull between us when the doorbell rings, shattering our moment.