I hated him. He was an asshole.

I was so fucking bored. Five months of married life sucked. Not that being a daughter was any easy feat. Nope. Both sucked.

“You do know he is probably with a mistress right now,” Sergei said after a short pause.

This had me looking at Sergei. “What?”

He moved closer into the room. I didn’t stop him as he sat down opposite me. I moved my feet out of his room. Sergei had never been like this before, and I quickly glanced around to make sure no one watched. I didn’t know why I did this. We weren’t breaking any rules, but all of a sudden, this felt way too intimate. Like I shouldn’t allow this. Did it make any sense?

I wasn’t betraying Slavik, but with his accusations still ringing in my ear, I couldn’t help but feel like I was.

Other than my family, I’d never sat down with a man. Rarely talked to one that wasn’t my husband or blood related. In fact, Sergei and Ivan were the only two men I’d spoken to in my life.

Sergei put a hand on my foot, and I gritted my teeth, doing everything in my power not to pull away from his touch. My family had drilled into me at a young age that touch by anyone but my husband was bad.

“A man like Slavik has needs. They’re important to him. He’s not the kind of man who is going to enjoy straight sex. He likes it dirty. He’ll find an outlet with a woman who is not his wife.”

So my husband of five months was already cheating on me. I should have known. Why did it hurt so much?

“Have you … met her?”

“No. Men like Slavik are never at a loss for female company.”

I didn’t like the way Sergei rubbed his thumb against my foot.

Quickly, I moved, standing up. “Then I guess I should count my blessings that he’s finding his pleasures elsewhere. Excuse me.”

I left the sitting room and entered our bedroom where we slept side by side most nights. I wrapped my arms around myself. With my back pressed against the closed door, I slid down and stared at the bed.

Sex always sounded so good in the books, but in real life, I couldn’t imagine a woman enjoying herself. It was too … horrible and boring. After the two times I’d had sex, I didn’t care for a repeat performance. I hadn’t enjoyed it.

Running fingers through my hair, I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on top.

Time ticked by.

The only passing I was aware of was the fading light in the window shining into the room. I didn’t move.

My stomach had stopped growling, and the sickness had also faded.

My marriage was already over. He was screwing someone else. Probably a whole lot of something elses. I shouldn’t care. In fact, I didn’t care.