Beautiful Revenge (A Good Wife Book 1)

by Sienna Blake

  I turn the corner Alena disappeared around. I can’t see her. I spin, searching the streets that branch off for a sign of where she’s gone. She has a few friends at school, but she’s not close enough to any of them to turn to them. I am the only one she has. Except…

  I run—like my life is at stake—back to Isabelle’s agency.

  I approach the dark door for a second time in…has it been less than an hour since I was here? Since I carried Alena out, fighting and screaming? No one is around. I can’t spot anyone at the windows, curtains drawn. I eye the silent door that seems to stare back and weigh my options. There’s no way anyone is letting me in for a second time. They’ll likely call the police if I bang on the door again. They won’t let me in. I just need to talk to her, to hold her, to tell her I’m sorry—then everything will be okay.

  Perhaps there is another entrance or even an open window. I slip along the building until I find a slim gate. Through it I can see a passage between the buildings. I spy what looks like a courtyard beyond. The courtyard, of course. A lot of these old buildings are built around one. The gate is unlocked, thank God. It squeaks as I push it open enough to squeeze my frame through, my feet almost silent on the cobblestones. I hear voices as I near the end of the passageway.

  “…doesn’t understand.”

  I suck in a breath. That’s Alena. The sound of pain in her voice cuts me. I can’t bear to hear her cry. I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry. I’m about to step out when she says something that makes me freeze.

  “I hate Dimitri,” she hisses. “He’s selfish and cruel. And his temper… You should have heard all the insults he hurled at me.”

  My blood curdles with guilt. If I could take back every word, Alena.

  “He’s nothing but a thief and a simpleton. He’s never going to be anything more.”

  My stomach stabs with the spearheads of all my failings, brought to life with her words.

  Nothing but a thief.

  A simpleton.

  Never going to be anything more.

  Deep down I think all these things. Deep down I fear they are true. I never suspected that she thought this.

  “It would kill me to marry Dimitri. I have to accept the Englishman. God, what I wouldn’t give to leave this horrible place. What I wouldn’t give to have a better life.”

  She can’t mean that. I clutch at the brick wall, the passageway closing in on me, my vision blurring. I can’t breathe. I need air. Air. I need.

  “If Dimitri can’t see that…he can stay here in hell and rot, see if I care.”

  Her words are the forged steel of a sword slicing me right through my heart.

  Here it is. The truth of what she believes of me. The truth she had never dared to say to my face. All this time…I thought she loved me. She is everything to me. I thought she felt the same. Turns out I am just another love-sick fool so easily tossed aside when a better offer comes along.

  “Don’t marry him, marry me. I don’t have a ring now but I will get one. I will. I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted. I promise, just…”

  She tugs her hand from mine, the loss of it spreading a frost through me like sickness. “Get up. You look ridiculous on the floor.”

  I can’t hear anymore.

  I can’t.

  I stumble back, back through the passageway, tripping over my own feet, tumbling through the gate. When I hit the pavement, I begin to run. I am numb, wrapped in fuzzy cotton. I can barely feel my feet. I sense the bubbling roar of anguish chasing after me like a tsunami. When it hits me…God help me.

  I fear I can’t outrun it for long.

  13

  ____________

  Alena

  “I have to accept the Englishman,” I say to Natassia, the GW’s dark-haired receptionist. Even as I say these words, my voice sounds hollow. I squeeze my eyes shut. Every time I do, I see Dimitri on his knees in front of me. I remember my cold words to him and they spear me through my heart. I snap my eyes open and focus on Natassia’s face, her lovely features drawn into a look of concern.

  She and I are sitting on a wrought-iron bench in the courtyard of Isabelle’s agency, so the girls inside can’t hear us. She is the only one here who knows the truth about Dimitri. That he’s not my brother. She’s promised not to tell. I don’t trust her, exactly. I don’t know her. But I had to talk to someone. I just have to hope that she keeps her word.

  “What I wouldn’t give to leave this horrible place,” I spit out. “What I wouldn’t give to have a better life.” I just want to know what it’s like to be warm and fed and happy. I want to know what it means not to have to worry all the time. Is that too much to ask for? Bitter frustration bubbles up within my well of hurt. “If Dimitri can’t see that…he can stay here and rot, see if I care.”

  A sharp wind blows. The creak of the front gate sounds out of the passageway. Natassia slides a hand on my shoulder. She has been so kind to me since I first came here. “If that’s how you truly feel, then go and make your slice of Heaven with the Englishman.”

  I remember Dimitri’s face as he called me a whore. He will never agree to this arrangement. I know him—once he forms an opinion, he won’t let it go. My chest wells up with such a sharp emotion that I stop breathing for a second. “Why does Heaven seem to cost so much?” I ask, barely a whisper.

  It costs me…Dimitri.

  I have to give him up.

  The thought slashes through me, a lightning strike trying to cleave my soul in two. It illuminates our past, our history, the very intertwining weave of our two lives. There’s no joy that Dimitri and I both don’t share. No pain that we don’t live through together. A realisation strikes me with such force I double over, sucking in air.

  Dimitri and I are two parts of one soul.

  He is my soul.

  How can a full belly be satisfying if my soul is left hungry? How can I truly be warm if my heart is left cold?

  What sapphires could please me more than Dimitri’s eyes? What symphony as rich as his laughter? What finest silk could compare to being wrapped up in his arms? All the world could crumble and wither into ash, but if he were still alive, I’d still be happy.

  Suddenly the rain and mist inside me clears. Everything is clear and fresh, like the first day of spring.

  I look up from my hands, twisted together in my lap. Natassia is frowning at me, asking if I’m okay.

  “Oh, Natassia,” I breathe, “I’ve been such a fool.” My blood rushes with purpose, my veins swollen with clarity. “I need to find Dimitri.” I fling myself from my seat and begin to run, my soul feeling like it has remembered its wings, now taking flight.

  I burst into our apartment, eyes seeking the man I love more than life itself, his sacred name on my lips. I blink rapidly, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing. The place has been ruined, furniture dashed to splintered pieces, our vinyl record in shards, scattered fallen pages all that remain of my books. Through the smashed windows, a bitter wind blows in, making me shiver.

  I can almost see Dimitri as he stumbled back into the apartment after our fight—what set him off? What did he see that broke the dam of his rage? I can feel him falling apart, his tormented pain still hovering like a ghost, clinging to each shattered item.

  “If you leave…you…you can’t fucking come back,” he roars.

  He thought I was never coming back. My heart jams up into my throat, choking me.

  I did this.

  I destroyed him.

  “No,” releases from my lips in a whisper. My knees give out. I sink to the floor, my fingers clawing at the carpet. They catch on a shredded piece of bright white lace that I don’t recognise as being mine. I see the shredded box, the wrapping paper. I realise instantly that this was supposed to have been for me. For my sixteenth birthday. In two days.

  In seeking Heaven, I reached too far. I flew too high with wings made of wax. Now I’ve fallen.

  I have ruined us both.

  14

  ___
_________

  Alena

  The present…

  At Worthington Manor, dinner is served at eight o’clock every night in the grand dining room. A monstrous wooden table that can seat twenty-four people plus elbow room is the main feature in this high-ceilinged room, original woodwork panels mixed with deep green wallpaper, glass cabinets and serving tables; at each end is a grand fireplace so large I can stand in it. I sit opposite Emily and we wait, hands in laps, for my husband to honour us with his presence at the place at the head of the table between us.

  “Did you tell him?” she asks, a slight crease between her brows. I know she’s talking about my miscarriage.

  I glance over to the side of the dining room. There’s only a young maid waiting there to serve us. I know she won’t tell on us. I turn back to Emily. “Mrs Bates had that pleasure.”

  At the mention of Mrs Bates, Emily makes a face like she’s tasted something awful. Then her features turn piteous. “Poor Papa,” Emily says. “He must be so sad.”

  I wince slightly as I remember her father’s anger earlier. Thankfully Emily hasn’t noticed. She’s watching the door for her father. She would die if she knew what was going on under her nose. She doesn’t know I was bought. She doesn’t know that her father only keeps me as a brood mare to deliver him a son. I will never tell her.

  “And you…” Emily turns towards me. “How are you?”

  If she wasn’t so damn sweet, I’d hate her for being his daughter. But I know she’s practically a prisoner here too. The world is a wild and terrible place, he said. It’s my duty to protect you from it. She was homeschooled growing up. Now that she’s finished school, I’m certain that my dear husband will come home one day with a husband for her. And she’ll accept it. Despite his coldness towards her, she has this desperate need to please him.

  Speak of the devil…

  My husband enters the dining room and takes his seat, no apology for keeping us waiting. Thank God. I’m starving. The smell of the roast chicken and baked potatoes has been torturing me. I pick up my knife and fork. For a few minutes, the air fills with the sound of knives scraping plates and of chewing.

  “I’ve invited a Mr Wolf to stay with us next week,” my husband says between large bites of food. “You’re both to make him feel welcome.”

  I force down the bite of food in my mouth. The men my husband associates with are as bad as he is. My husband’s friends leave Emily alone because she’s his daughter. They know who I am and exactly how much my husband paid for me. They treat me as such.

  I’ve never heard him speak of Mr Wolf before. I want to ask but Emily beats me to it. “Who is Mr Wolf?”

  “He’s an investor here from America. I met him in London. He’s looking for a business to invest in. I’m hoping it’ll be mine.” My husband operates a finance company specialising in shares management. He didn’t share the details with me. I had to look them up.

  “What’s he like?” Emily’s face is alert, her eyes sparkling with possibilities. “Is he young?”

  My husband shrugs, helping himself to more potatoes. “Mid-twenties, I’d say. Tall fellow. Has a foreign accent so I don’t think he’s originally from America. Although his English is very good.”

  Emily is smiling with her chin resting on her hand. I know in her head she’s half in love with Mr Wolf already. You can hardly blame her. She’s an eighteen-year-old girl who has never been kissed, who is barely let out of this gilded cage. I hope he’s not handsome enough to break her heart. I ignore the twinge of nerves over Mr Wolf’s upcoming arrival.

  I’m still feeling weak from my miscarriage, so I’m the first to leave dinner. My slippered feet barely make a sound on the marble floor as I pass into the main foyer.

  I flinch as I take in the figure of the man who’s standing just inside the entrance, brushing the collar and shoulders of his coat from the English drizzle. Terrance Hagerty, my husband’s business advisor, a man in his mid-forties with a rat-like face and spidery hands. I gulp back a gasp. Of all my husband’s associates, I hate him the most. My skin breaks out into goose bumps.

  I don’t want him to see me. Maybe if I back up slowly into the shadows—

  As if he has heard me, he looks up, his beady grey eyes locking on mine. A smile crawls across his face. “Alena.” His voice is nasally and barbed. “How lovely to see you again.”

  I wish I could say the same for you.

  I force my features into an expression of placid politeness and nod my head in greeting. “My husband is still in the dining room. Excuse me. I’m not feeling well.” I start for the staircase, my movements jerky in my haste to get away from him.

  His fingers close around my arm before I can escape, my skin crawling at his touch.

  “Come now, Alena.” His sour breath curdles around my cheeks. “Are you really going to run away so quickly? We really must catch up.” He smiles, revealing a set of yellowing teeth.

  I tug against him. His grip tightens so hard that I wince. I see the flare of pleasure in his eyes.

  “Let go of me or I will scream,” I hiss.

  “Alena?” A soft feminine voice startles us both.

  Emily is standing at the corridor from the dining room. She’s staring at his hand wrapped around my arm.

  With his plans thwarted, Terrance lets go of me and takes a step back. I clutch my red wrist to my chest. He smiles at her. It’s poisonous underneath the surface. “Lovely Emily. Alena and I were just…catching up.”

  Emily hurries to my side and slings her arm through mine. “Father’s expecting you. He’s gone into the drawing room. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.” She drags me up the stairs.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to her.

  “He’s so fucking creepy,” she whispers back. “Sleep in my room tonight?”

  I nod with relief. Terrance often stays here the night if he and my husband have business together. I’m not sure whether he’d ever “accidentally” find himself in my room in the middle of the night. I don’t want to find out.

  “Good night, Mr Haggard,” Emily calls back down the stairs, deliberately saying his name wrong.

  I muffle a giggle. God, I love her.

  I can feel his eyes burning into my back. When I chance a glance back, Terrance is standing at the base of the stairs, watching us leave. He has a look on his face that says: One day. I’ll get you alone. One day soon.

  15

  ____________

  Alena

  Five years ago…

  The cream lace dress I wear is flawless. It’s the girl inside that is torn. My palms are sweaty as I press them to my stomach, trying to hold my pieces in. Edgar Worthington, my soon-to-be husband looks down at me out of the corner of his eye as we stand in front of the celebrant at St Petersburg City Hall. He is not as tall as Dimitri but tall enough that I have to look up at him. I see grey eyes and a soft, thin-lipped smile before his face blurs in my vision.

  This feels wrong. It is wrong. What choice do I have?

  After I picked myself up off the floor of our ruined apartment, I ran to the factory where Dimitri worked. He’s quit, they said, gone to America, they said. I spent the last of my money on a taxi to the airport. I raced up and down the terminal screaming his name until two security guards came and dragged me to a back office. Through my tears I explained my situation, I begged for their help. They went away. After what felt like an eternity, they came back with a piece of paper. A passenger’s list. Dimitri Volkov was on a plane to New York, left twenty-three minutes ago. He was gone. I had lost him.

  With winter coming, no place to live and no money to support me, I had no choice.

  Marry this stranger or die.

  I don’t want to die. It would be easier if I did. My heart may be shattered, but my cursed survival instincts are still functioning. They’re overriding everything else for now. Even the coiling instinct to run!

  Isabelle is guarding my other side. As always, she is impeccably dressed in a powder blue p
antsuit, her white mink coat flung over one gloved arm, large pearls around her neck. Natassia kept her word and said nothing to Isabelle about Dimitri. Isabelle smiles sweetly at me, but I can see the truth in her eyes. She is here to ensure the wedding goes through and the contracts are signed. She is here to protect her investment.

  I barely remember hearing the vows or the translator repeating in English what the priest says in Russian. I don’t remember saying “I do.” I must have. Because suddenly I’m bending over and my fingers are trembling as I sign the marriage contract. My pen makes black loops around me, tying me up nice and tight, my signature right in between my husband’s and Isabelle’s.

  My only way out is to produce a child. A bitter foreign seed sprouts in my gut, the poison tips breaking through the numbness. Before I can grab the contract and tear it to pieces, it is snatched from me. Isabelle slips it into a slim briefcase before handing it to one of her bodyguards, her lips pursed with satisfaction. I open my mouth to scream. Nothing comes out.

  Marry him or die.

  Another piece of paper is thrust in front of me. Someone stabs a black line with their finger. The marriage license. They want me to sign the marriage license now.

  With a final slash of my pen, leaving a trail of bleeding black ink, I kill Alena Ivanova.

  Standing in her place is a woman I don’t know.

  Mrs Edgar Worthington.

  I will mourn Alena Ivanova. Soon. But not now. Not right now.

  Under the numbness shrouding me is the pain howling underneath, sharpening its claws. It’s waiting for me. It’s coming.

  Marry him or die.

  Isabelle is hugging me, her expensive perfume like a gas clogging up my nostrils and my eyes. “Congratulations, Alena,” she says in her accented Russian. “I’m so happy for you.” Her words bounce right off me. Then she’s striding away, her bodyguards trailing after her like two giant Dobermans. Leaving me in the hands of a stranger.