“We’re flying to Baltimore?” I climb onto the private jet, frowning around. “What about your car?”
“Damian will take that back.” Tigran collapses into a luxurious leather seat and sighs. “This is faster.”
I frown at him and squint out the window. I’m nervous and feeling a little sick. “I haven’t been on a plane in a really long time.”
“Lucky you.”
I hesitate and then choose the seat as far from him as I can get. I curl up in the big chair, pulling my knees to my chest, and he sighs before coming back to me. He slumps down in the seat beside mine. Not too close, but still, too close.
“Do you have to sit there?” I ask, frustrated by the way I react when he’s near. Like my body has a mind of its own.
He looks at me for a long moment as the crew gets the plane prepared to take off. I squirm a little under that gaze, hating the way my eyes keep drifting to his lips.
“When was the last time you ate something?”
That’s not what I expected him to say. “Uh, this morning, I think.”
“Dasha, pisik, you need to take better care of yourself.”
“I’ve had other things on my mind. You know, like leaving the only home I’ve ever known to move in with a stranger?”
He chuckles, low and intense, and flags down the flight attendant. She’s a pretty woman with high cheekbones and huge tits. He barely glances at her, which is a surprise.
She’s easily a ten, while I’m a six-and-a-half, and the half is being generous.
“My wife needs something to eat. What’s available?”
“Well, sir, there’s no meal—”
“I asked you what’s available, not what you don’t have.”
She laughs nervously. “Of course, sir. I believe there’s a gourmet cheese and cracker plate?”
“That’ll do fine.” She scurries away, and Tigran leans toward me. “I want you to eat everything she brings.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“I’m not asking permission. You’re my wife now, which means you’ll take care of yourself. No more forgetting to eat.”
“Why do you even care?”
He grunts as he looks away. His face screws up like he doesn’t know how to answer that question before scowling back at me. “Because it’ll help you get through this without fainting again, and I don’t feel like peeling your unconscious body off the floor for a second time.”
My hands grip my knees tighter. “Right, that makes more sense. It’s not altruistic, right? Just making sure I don’t become a burden.”
“Exactly.” He smirks and leans his head back. “Now you get it.”
The flight lasts barely half an hour. He sleeps the whole time, and I reluctantly eat. I hate to admit it, but he was right—it makes the stressful experience slightly better.
As soon as we’re up, it’s like we’re coming back down for a landing. I’m busy eating, and I don’t even realize I should be freaking out.
At least, until the runway slips into view and we’re hurtling toward it.
I feel myself tensing like it’s the last thing I’ll ever see. How did I end up here? With a man I don’t know? A bossy, selfish asshole who only cares about making sure I do what’s expected of me?
Like have his babies.
“Crap,” I whisper to myself, terrified to my core. “Oh, crap, oh, crap. Oh—”
Tigran reaches out and takes my hand.
I stare at it. Callused, thick, strong. I hold tightly, not really caring that it’s him, as I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m desperate for comfort right now, and he gives it to me. The fear’s still there, but it dims when he’s touching me, and before I realize what’s happening, the plane touches down.
I yelp, but he holds my hand tighter as the plane brakes and slows down.
“You’re okay,” he says gently. “We’re down.”
“Right. I’m fine. I did it.”
“And you even finished all your crackers. I’m proud of you.”
I glare at him. “Are you always like this?”
“Not always. Just with you.” His eyebrows raise, and he looks down. “You can let go of my hand if you want.”
I had forgotten about that. I quickly shove his palm from my lap and turn my back on him, arms wrapping around my body. “I’m fine, okay? Would you stop looking at me?”
“If I have to,” he says, and I’m pretty sure I hear a smile on his face.
I refuse to look. I’m not giving him that satisfaction. Instead, I watch the airport filter past as the plane taxis to the private terminal.
Baltimore’s a lot like Philly. The row homes are mostly red brick. There are green spaces, lots of rundown neighborhoods, and tons of life. People mill around the streets, even in the late evening as the sun sets. There’s a downtown with skyscrapers, and I can almost smell the inner harbor.
Another one of Tigran’s drivers takes us into an upscale neighborhood. The houses here are in great shape, with lots of glass and windows. Roof decks, gastropubs on every corner, life, movement, and excitement.
It’s overwhelming to a girl who hasn’t been out of her suite much in the last decade, but it’s also fascinating.
“Sometimes I feel like the world moved on without me,” I murmur, forgetting for a second about my husband.
But he’s always got to remind me that he’s there. “You act like the horse-drawn carriage was the primary mode of transportation when you were last moving around outside.”
“No, obviously not, but it’s just—” How do I make him get it? That everything just looks different?
“Try to explain,” he says patiently.
“I was a little kid back then. Mostly I remember what the city was like from the perspective of a thirteen-year-old. Now I’m twenty-five, and it’s like…”
“Everything’s smaller?”
“Yeah, that, but also it’s just different.” I’m frustrated with myself because I can’t put it into words. The way trains and buses aren’t magical anymore. Buildings aren’t incredible. “Everything lost its shine.”
“You’re jaded,” he says like he completely understands.
I look back at him. “I don’t feel jaded, but maybe that’s the right word.”
“I was like that too, you know, back when I was young. I thought the world worked one way, but as I got older, it became clear that it just doesn’t work at all.”
“That’s pretty depressing.”
“Liberating, I think. Now that I understand life doesn’t mean a thing, I have the freedom to do what I please.”
I shrink away from him. “I think life has meaning.”
“Do you? Funny, coming from a girl who’s been hiding from life for more than half of hers.”
I turn, about to argue, but it dies in my throat. What if he’s right? I always imagined my life had purpose—that even if I was hiding away, I still mattered. What if his sad, nihilistic viewpoint is real, and nothing really matters at all?
And all I’ve done is waste my time?
But no, I won’t think that way. He can be all doom and gloom. Even though I’ve been a shut-in, I still think there’s good in the world. Maybe I’ve been hiding from the bad stuff, but I’ve tried to keep myself open to everything else.
Just in my own ways. Through books, movies, TV, and the internet.
The car pulls up in front of a large, modern house right across the street from the water. It’s enormous and beautiful, in some of the most prime real estate in the entire city.
“Here we are,” he says, getting out of the car.
My jaw drops open. He pops the trunk and grabs my bags, waving off the driver and doing it himself. I scramble out, and the second my feet hit the pavement, I think this has to be some mistake.
“You live here?” I ask when he starts toward the front door.
“You should see the Sarkissian mansion. You’ll like that. Secret passages and lots of blood-stained carpet.” He laughs like that’s somehow a funny joke.
This is my home. A big, black front door waits for me. Tigran wrestles my bags inside, grunting as he goes, and I can’t seem to move.
I know what will happen once I’m in there.
I won’t come back out.
This is the end for me. I know it, and Tigran’s got to know it too. There’s no way I’ll work up the courage to leave the house again once I’m in the safety of this big, beautiful place. Unless I turn and run, I’ll be trapped.
Because I’m going to trap myself.
“Dasha, come inside,” Tigran says from the doorway. He beckons for me and holds out a hand.
I don’t want to. I look away, toward the car, and wonder if I could steal it. But I don’t even know how to drive. I never learned. What was the point?
Now I wish I had done something, anything, these last twelve years.
“Dasha,” he says again, this time a little more insistent.
“Coming.” I hang my head and follow him into the house.
The door shuts behind me.
“I’ll give you a tour later,” he says as I catch glimpses of an upscale home. Dark, gleaming floors, expensive oil paintings on the wall. Tasteful statues, vintage furniture. Big, gold-framed mirrors. A sitting room with a piano, an office that’s clearly his, a gourmet kitchen.
An older man is cooking soup at the stove. “Welcome home, Tigran,” he says, walking slightly stooped. He’s got wispy graying hair and a very kind, gentle smile. “And this must be your wife.”
“Dasha,” I say, introducing myself.
“This is Vito; he runs the house.”
“Lovely to meet you. Technically, I’m Mr. Sarkissian’s valet, but I do most of the cooking and coordinate the staff. If you ever need anything, and I mean that literally, come find me. I’ll help.”
“Thank you,” I say, totally overwhelmed. My father had staff, but they only came around occasionally to clean twice a week.
“I’ll get her bags upstairs,” Tigran grunts. “That smells good, Vito.”
“You’ll enjoy it, I hope. Just a little something I threw together.” The older man’s eyes sparkle and his smile is shockingly calming. “Nothing like nice, warm soup to make you feel at home.”
Tigran heads to a back staircase. He lugs my bags up, muscling them all alone. I hurry after him, and he takes me to a room on the right.
“This is yours,” he says, taking a key down from the top of the doorframe and handing it to me. “Nobody else has one. Only you and me.”
“That’s… good?” I don’t know how to feel as he pushes inside.
There’s an expansive, comfortable sitting room. Couch, coffee table, a television over what looks like a real, working fireplace. Bookshelves filled with books and tasteful portraits of barking dogs and a summer village on the walls. It’s like straight out of a magazine.
“Living room, bedroom, bathroom.” He gestures around him and walks over to the windows. “And a view of the harbor.”
I follow him and stare down at the water. “It’s beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself. I glance over, thinking he’ll make fun of me, but he’s staring outside too.
“Yeah, it is,” he agrees, and he seems much gentler than I would’ve expected.
But it only lasts a moment. He turns away, gesturing impatiently at my bags.
“Unpack and get settled,” he commands, heading to the door.
“Wait,” I say, a sudden panic coming over me. “What am I supposed to do?”
He pauses to look back. His face is cloudy and dark.
“Get settled. Live your life. What else is there?”
Then he’s gone.
Leaving me alone in a strange room, in a strange house, surrounded by total strangers.
The reality of my situation hits me. I feel small, crushed, ground to a pulp. All the panic I’ve been suppressing finally hits, but instead of curling up on the couch like a catatonic mummy, I surprise myself.
By ripping the art off the walls.
I don’t even know why I do it. I start with a nice little house in a meadow somewhere and toss it on the floor. I knock over a statue of an elephant, yank books off the shelves, and pile them in a corner. I toss stationery off the desk and root around in the bathroom until there’s not a single monogrammed towel in sight.
I rip the place to shreds, piling all the fake, soulless decorations in a corner, and when I’m done, it looks like the place was hit by a hurricane.
Finally, I feel calm enough to drag myself into the bed and bury myself under the covers.
