Chapter three - bitter mornings
1154 Words
The sun had barely risen when Alina tiptoed into the kitchen.
The mansion was silent, blanketed in a stillness that reminded her of the seconds before a storm. She hadn’t slept. Not really. How could she — in a stranger’s bed, under a roof where she was nothing more than a truce in lipstick?
Still, she had to try.
Isn’t that what good wives did?
The cook wasn’t in yet. She was alone, sleeves rolled up, fingers trembling as she cracked eggs into a pan. She didn’t know if Viktor even liked eggs. Or breakfast. Or anything, really.
But she needed to do something — to reclaim some sense of control in a world that kept stripping her of it.
By the time she arranged the tray — fresh eggs, dark bread, strong black coffee — her hands had steadied. Just a little.
She found him in the study, exactly where the guards said he’d be. Shirt half-unbuttoned, jacket slung carelessly over the chair, he looked like sin draped in silk.
He barely glanced up as she stepped in.
“I— I made you breakfast,” she said softly, placing the tray on his desk.
Nothing.
Not a thank you. Not even a look.
Her cheeks burned, but she forced a smile. “I wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee…”
Click.
The sound of heels cut through the room like gunfire.
And then she appeared.
Tall. Blonde. Lipstick red as blood. Dressed like she was going to brunch with the devil himself.
Tatiana.
Viktor’s girlfriend.
Alina didn’t need an introduction. The woman’s eyes made it clear — she wasn’t a stranger here.
“Well, isn’t this precious?” Tatiana said, eyeing the tray like it was poison. “Little housewife already playing pretend.”
Alina’s throat tightened. “I just thought—”
“Oh no, sweet girl,” Tatiana interrupted with a laugh that dripped honey and venom. “Thinking isn’t your strong suit. But don’t worry, you’ll find your place soon enough. Viktor doesn’t do breakfast love stories.”
Viktor stood slowly, walking past both women without a word. He grabbed the coffee — took a sip — and placed it back down.
“Too sweet,” he muttered, and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Tatiana leaned in, smirking. “See? Try all you want, darling. But you’ll never be enough for him. You’re just… paper work.”
Alina stood frozen, the heat of shame rising up her neck.
But deep beneath that shame — something colder was stirring.
Tatiana stormed in after him, heels echoing like gunshots against the marble floor.
“Viktor,” she snapped, shutting the door behind her. “Are you seriously going to let that girl parade around like your little housemaid?”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t even glance her way as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the armchair.
Tatiana folded her arms. “You think letting her cook you breakfast is going to make her feel like a wife? She’s nothing.”
Viktor ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter what she feels.”
“So you’re really doing this?” she asked bitterly. “Living with her like this—like she belongs here?”
“She doesn’t,” he said calmly. “And she won’t.”
Tatiana moved closer, her fingers trailing down his chest. “Then why are you punishing me?”
She leaned in, lips brushing his jaw.
“I can remind you what you like, baby…”
But Viktor stepped back, his eyes cold and unreadable.
“Not now, Tatiana.”
Her lips parted slightly in disbelief. “You’re serious?”
Before he could answer—
Knock. Knock.
A pause.
Then the softest voice:
“Sir? I’m… I’m off to work now. I just thought I should inform you before leaving.”
He didn’t answer right away. For a second, the room went still.
Then, still holding Tatiana’s stunned gaze, he replied:
“Fine.”
Footsteps faded. The door down the hall clicked shut.
Tatiana let out a breath and stepped back.
“You’re letting her live here. Sleep across from you. Cook for you. And now she’s reporting to you like a damn secretary.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Viktor.”
He didn’t flinch. “And I always win.”
The door had barely clicked behind Alina when the house seemed to breathe again — or maybe it was just her who had been holding in every breath since she entered it.
The cold air outside felt like freedom.
She walked quickly to the street, her coat pulled tight, not even bothering to ask for the driver.
This was her first morning here. She refused to start it being chauffeured around like a prisoner in silk.
⸻
Inside, minutes later, Viktor adjusted his cufflinks as he stepped out of the house, his expression unreadable as ever.
One of his guards opened the car door. “Where to, boss?”
“Meeting at the estate,” Viktor muttered, then paused.
His gaze lingered on the quiet street.
She said she was off to work.
He turned slightly. “Did she go alone?”
The guard blinked. “Yes, sir. She declined escort. Said she didn’t want to make a scene.”
His jaw clenched — barely — then he slid into the backseat, giving no further comment.
⸻
Across town, at Zorov & Partners — one of the most prestigious architecture firms in Moscow —
Alina stepped into the office, heels clicking softly against the polished floors. The place smelled of fresh ink, ambition, and cologne—everything she once dreamed of being part of.
And yet…
Every morning felt like another game she never quite learned how to win.
She walked past the shared studio, giving a small nod to a few interns. No one greeted her. No one ever really did, except—
“Alina!”
A warm voice called from behind.
She turned, grateful.
“Hey, Anika.”
Anika, the only bright spot in this grey hellhole of overworked, overpaid egos, fell into step beside her. “You came early again.”
Alina smiled faintly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Just as she set her bag down at her tiny, shared desk, a sharp voice cut through the space.
“Alina! Coffee run, now.”
She turned to see Jessica — tall, sleek, condescending — waving a manicured hand in her direction.
“I just— I just got in,” Alina said carefully.
Jessica raised a brow. “And you should be grateful to have something to do. Large black for me. The list is on your desk.”
Anika gave Alina a sympathetic look as Jessica strutted off in her overpriced heels.
“Same circus,” Alina muttered under her breath, grabbing the paper.
Same clown in charge.
- Writer
