Page 4 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

Her green eyes shine with a predatory glint as she places a hand on my chest.

"Oh, I missed you so much, Ruslan, if only you knew… Thank God that dreadful ceremony is over. Soon, we’ll be able to see each other like before."

Her hand slides over my abs, moving lower and lower.

"Patience," I say, grabbing her wrist to stop her from going further. "You need to be more careful, Natasha. If your husband finds out the truth about us, both our lives will be in danger. You know what he's capable of."

"I’ll be careful, my love," she whispers, pressing herself against me. "We’ll wait for his trips so he won’t suspect anything. Now, shut up and kiss me."

I lean in and claim her lips in a possessive kiss, desperately trying to push Sophia’s face out of my mind.

When I pull away, Natasha’s voice rises again, sweet and venomous:

"Thinking about how you have to consummate your union tonight… It makes me sick. It’s going to be unbearable for you to fulfill your marital duty with that insignificant little girl, but think of me when you're inside her. I want you to come with my name on your lips."

Her vile words make me want to vomit, and I want to push her away violently. How dare she insert herself into my marriage like this? What kind of woman says such disgusting things?

Pretending I need to rejoin my guests, I leave her quickly. Before heading back to my table, I stop at the bar. My hand trembles slightly.

"A whiskey," I say in a rough voice.

The waitress serves me with a flirtatious smile that I ignore, and I swallow the contents of the glass one gulp. The amber liquid burns my throat, slides down my esophagus like lava, washing away the taste of Natasha from my mouth. But even alcohol can’t erase the bitter taste of betrayal and the guilt that gnaws at me.

When I return to our table, Sophia is gone. My gaze sweeps across the room, scanning the crowd for her white silhouette. Nothing. Where did she go?

Raphaël sits alone at the now-deserted table, his eyes locked on me with a murderous intensity. Fury and contempt blaze in his stare, sending a sharp chill down my spine. Instinctively, I run a hand over the corner of my lips. A red smudge. Lipstick. A trivial detail, yet it screams my guilt with undeniable clarity. He knows. Just like I do, he knows Sophia never wears any.

"I want to be there the day she destroys you," he hisses, low enough that only I can hear.

3. Expiration Date

RUSLAN

Sophia is nowhere to be seen. I step onto the porch, scanning the vast estate, my heartbeat quickening with each passing second. The meticulously groomed French gardens stretch out before me, their perfectly trimmed hedges casting geometric shadows on the white gravel paths. Where could she be? Did she go for a walk? If so, I hope she dressed warmly. Despite the unseasonably mild April evening, the air grows cooler as the sun dips below the horizon.

Suddenly, I spot her, walking up a path lined with towering yews. The train of her white gown trails behind her, brushing against the gravel with a soft whisper. Her steps are slow, almost hesitant, as if she’s carrying an invisible weight on her shoulders. What is she doing outside alone? Something feels off—I can sense it deep in my gut.

Then, as if she can feel my gaze on her, her eyes lift and meet mine. The impact is like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from my lungs. The joy that had lit up her face just hours ago has vanished. In its place is a hollow void, a bottomless abyss that chills me to the bone. The desolation in her gaze cuts through me like a blade. Did someone say something to her? I never should have left her alone. Not today.

A sharp pain grips my chest as I think back to the pure, unfiltered happiness that radiated from her barely an hour ago, when she twirled across the dance floor. How is it possible to grieve the loss of something I hadn’t even realized I wanted? That light she carried within her… I’m only now beginning to understand how much it meant to me.

A few meters separate us, yet suddenly, the distance feels impossible to bridge.

I approached Sophia for all the wrong reasons. Natasha’s husband caught us in a compromising position, and in my panic, I blurted out a pathetic excuse—an engagement. Sophia’s name had come to me instinctively. I knew she was a loner, quiet, unattached. The perfect cover for an improvised lie. I staged our "accidental" reunion, then launched into a rushed seduction with one goal in mind: to make her my alibi wife.

What I hadn’t planned for were the moments of unexpected warmth, the genuine connection. I grew to like her—her sharp mind when she overcame her shyness, her clear, ringing laughter, the way she saw the world. It’s not love, but I care about her.

Raphaël, my adopted "brother," has always had an infuriating ability to see through me better than anyone. He returned from his mission two days before the wedding—too late to stop this charade. I still remember the way he stared me down during the ceremony, his dark gaze full of unspoken reproach.

Sophia, on the other hand, suspected nothing.

Or did she?

I step into the limousine after her, the fresh scent of lemon and honeysuckle filling the cabin. The silence is deafening, thick with an almost electric tension. The lights of Paris blur past the tinted windows, casting shifting shadows over her now-impenetrable face.

With a precise movement, she presses the button that raises the partition, sealing us off from Oscar, my driver and bodyguard. The soft click of the mechanism sounds like a guillotine.

"How long do you need to stay married?" she asks suddenly. "Until all suspicion is gone for good?"