I had no idea how much I needed the comfort, but the moment he was there, I didn’t want him to leave.

Our marriage wasn’t a happy one, nor pleasant, but clearly something had been going right in the past five months for me to prefer his company to my parents. The idea of Slavik coming home every night didn’t make me sick to my stomach.

“What if I’d been your enemy? Your wife would be dead now.”

My father had clearly washed his hands of me. No reference to me being his daughter or a member of his family. I was Slavik’s now.

“I have Sergei,” I said, speaking up, breaking all the rules. My dad couldn’t punish me now. I was no longer his responsibility.

In fact, realizing that, it kind of sent a shiver of pleasure rushing down my spine. They were in Slavik’s home now. I belonged to him. His property.

“Please, I’ll show you to the dining room.”

Slavik took my hand, not allowing me to go far.

“They can find the table. Sergei, make them sit,” he said.

I heard the outrage coming from my mother, but I ignored it as Slavik held my hand, stopping me from going anywhere. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked.

“Why are we having fish?”

His question caught me off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Fish. It’s being served.”

“It’s what the chef decided.”

“You hate fish.”

For a split second, I was speechless. How did he know that? Why did he even care? Licking my dry lips, I looked over his shoulder, but he snapped his fingers. This made me feel like a child.

“You wanted a chef, and he wouldn’t listen to me. No, I don’t like fish, but he wouldn’t allow me to have any choice.”

“What will you eat?”

“Bread, or whatever else is around. I won’t starve.” I had to wonder how many calories were in bread. I hadn’t eaten a whole lot today. The moment Slavik told me he’d invited my family to dinner, eating had been the last thing on my mind. The idea of sitting with my family and hearing their judgmental comments was enough to stop me from eating. If he’d told me this at the beginning of the week, I’d have lost a great deal of weight already.

“I don’t like this.”

“Next time, don’t organize a chef and have a little trust in me.”

“Why should I trust you?” he asked.

I didn’t know what came over me. Hurt? Anger. Irritation that I should trust him, but he can’t trust me.

“And why should I trust you?” I glared at him and tugged my wrist from out of his hold, marching into the dining room. The moment I crossed the threshold, the mask was firmly in place.

Dinner hadn’t even started, and it was already a disaster. My father had taken my place setting at the head of the table. This was an instant sign of disrespect. I clenched my hands together, twisting them, trying to figure out what the hell to do.