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To every one of us who defied logic and fell in love with villains.
Death can come in the form of a doppelgänger. There’s this myth as old as time that says when you meet someone who looks just like you, one of you will die. Who is the question. Who would die first?
The man, who’s Russian, judging by the subtle accent he just spoke with, stands in front of me, his hand still gripping my elbow. It’s a gentle touch compared to the brute force he used to pull me back.
Instead, he chooses to watch me, his thick brows drawing over his eyes that I really don’t want to be staring into, but I find myself dragged into their savage gray anyway. They’re like the harshness of the clouds above and the merciless gust of the wind from every direction. I can pretend they don’t exist, but they still make me lose the feeling of my limbs. They give me blisters and pain.
His skin brushes against my gloves for a second, and though the contact is brief, I see it. A wedding ring on his left finger.
Considering the extreme discomfort I felt in his presence, I figured I’d be relieved when he left. On the contrary, it feels as if my breast bone is digging into the sensitive flesh of my heart.
I keep staring at the burnt butt. How the fire left a black line on the white exterior. So even after it’s gone, the evidence remains. Just like my life.
His accent was very Russian, but not really rough like I’ve heard before. It was smooth, effortless, almost how I’d imagine Russian royalty to speak if they ever learned English.
The Russian stranger drew so much attention, and the weirdest part is that he seemed kind of oblivious to it. Or maybe he was bothered by it, like he didn’t want to be the center of attention, but he was forced into that position anyway.
I slowly turn my head, hoping to hell that what I just heard was a play of my imagination. That I’ve thought about him for so long, I’ve started hallucinating. I’m not.
His voice is velvety, smooth as silk, but still deep and masculine.
I expect him to let me go now that he has me by his side, but he doesn’t. If anything, his hold tightens on my hips, and even though I’m wearing multiple layers of clothes, I can feel the controlling warmth in his hands. It’s different from the heat in the car. This is burning, tearing holes through my clothes and aiming at my skin.
His lips graze the shell of my ear as he murmurs, “Be my wife.”
The lack of his touch is like losing warmth in the middle of an icy storm.
I stare at him from a different perspective. At his straight, confident posture, at his choice of dark wardrobe, at his black hair and thick stubble, at the shadows caused by his cheekbones. And, finally, at the dimness in his gray eyes that appear to have been cut from New York’s gloomy sky.
I won’t be Winter Cavanaugh anymore. My thoughts are reinforced when the Russian says, “From now on, you’re Lia Volkov. Wife of Adrian Volkov.”
I don’t believe in myths. I’m a man of facts. I may twist them in my favor, I may use a distorted version to reach a certain end, but I do not go after illusions. And yet, there’s an exception. An illusion I will pursue. The woman sitting beside me in the back seat of my car is a myth, herself.
“Imagine my doppelgänger somewhere in the world right now.” She gave me a soft smile. “If you saw her, you wouldn’t be able to tell us apart.” “That’s impossible.”
She still doesn’t know who I am or what I do, but she’s already figured out that I’m not a man she can afford to mess with. And for that, all her walls are up with wires wrapped around them. What she doesn’t realize is that I can and will destroy those walls until I get what I want.
A movement in front of me makes me lift my head. “She’s ready, sir.” The manager smiles with utter pride, as if she’s made a swan out of an ugly duckling. But that’s not the case. She was always a swan, only hidden.
Winter is no longer Winter. She’s Lia. She took my wife’s life, and her punishment is spending the rest of her existence being Lia’s replacement. I’ll bring my Lia out of this woman, even if it’s the last thing I do.
I’m Winter Cavanaugh and I’m living on behalf of myself and my baby girl. No one will be able to erase those facts from my head, not even a frightening man like Adrian.
Adrian stands, startling me from my thoughts. He’s tall, dark, and handsome while sitting. But when he stands, towering over my short frame, I feel the need to bolt out of my skin.
He flattens a palm at the small of my back and places his other hand on top of the car to stop my head from bumping against it as he guides me inside. My fingers tremble and I clasp them on my lap as I’m surrounded by the smell of leather from the seats. What is this feeling? No one should be this chivalrous yet terrifyingly dangerous at the same time.
I lost all awareness of my surroundings. Except for Adrian.
One way or another, he’s been present ever since I first met him. He’s a quiet force that slowly creeps under my skin and leaves me panting for more—or less. Either way, he’s there, under my skin, and it’s impossible to breathe without feeling his presence.
Adrian is the complete opposite of that notion—he’s silent, calm, but exudes an authority so raw, it’s even more terrifying than those with loud power.
His presence still gives me a weird feeling. The creeps mixed with fear and…something else I’d rather not identify.
My thoughts trail off when the footsteps grow nearer and a small human appears at the top of the stairs. He comes down, holding the spindles with each step, his tiny fingers wrapping around them like a vise. He looks no older than five, give or take. There’s no doubt who the little boy is. He’s the spitting image of Adrian with his dark hair and gray eyes. Only, his are lighter and bigger. My suspicions are confirmed when he hops down the last two steps, yelling, “Papa!”
The boy, Jeremy, lifts his head and stops mid-run. His huge gray eyes meet mine and they widen even more as he whispers, “Mommy…?” I don’t know if it’s the word or the way he looks at me as he says it, like he’s found the world after he lost it, but tears I haven’t shed in too long burst from my eyes.
He stomps up the stairs, his small body emanating more energy than a kid twice his age. He definitely has his mother’s temper.
I pull the duvet to her chin and take one last look at her face. “I’ll be right back, Lenochka.”
I try to breathe, even partially, considering that Adrian’s still here and his presence always steals some of my air, if not all.
“Okay.” He narrows his eyes. “Drop that word.” “Why?” “And stop talking back to me.” “I’m merely asking why.” “Because it doesn’t suit you.” “More like it doesn’t suit your wife,” I mumble. “What did you just say?” “Nothing,” I blurt at the severity in his tone. This man is really not to be messed around with.
A man like Adrian should really come with a hazard warning, and not just because of his tenacious self-assurance, but because of all of him.
A breath leaves me when I find Adrian sitting with the little boy from yesterday—Jeremy.
My head snaps back to stare at him at the same time as a wicked smirk paints his lips. It makes him appear like a villain who just found his next target.
“Stop denying it, Lenochka.” That nickname again. I don’t know what it means, but I hate it. I don’t want him to call me by it. I don’t want him to use me as if I’m really his wife. I’m not. I’m only playing a damn role so I can survive.
He caresses the broken skin, but it’s far from a doting gesture. It’s deceptive, secretly coarse and callous. “Hide all you like, but I’ll eventually bring you out.”
Adrian Volkov might have thought he hit the jackpot by finding his dead wife’s lookalike, but what he doesn’t know is that he fell upon a shell. And inside this shell, there’s nothing for him to bring out.
Jeremy lunges at me in a tight hug. His arms wrap around my waist with a force that pushes me down on my butt. I can feel him sniffle against my chest. “I m-missed you, Mommy. Please don’t leave me.” “Never.” The words escape my mouth with so much conviction that it leaves me breathless. I hug him close and kiss the top of his head, taking my time to smell him. He’s like a little marshmallow, soft and beautiful.
True power simmers underneath, hushed in low tones and feared in public. That’s what I’ve become. The one whose shadow everyone feels, even when I’m not present, whether in the brotherhood or outside of it.
The men here use guns as their weapons. Mine is information. It’s deadlier, faster, and more efficient.
I excel in the art of deception. I have since I was a kid.
The sight of blood on her lips won’t leave my mind, the way she muffled her voice still gets on my last nerve. It’ll change. She will change.
I stride to Jeremy’s room, and when I open the door, the sight before me leaves me open-mouthed. Lia is sleeping on my son’s bed, holding him to her chest. His tiny fingers are wrapped around her waist and a small smile grazes his sleepy face.
An overpowering giddiness takes hold of me whenever he calls me Mommy. I certainly don’t deserve it, but it’s the best thing that’s happened to me since I stepped into Lia’s shoes. With Jeremy’s attachment to me, I can pretend my existence actually has a purpose, after all.
He’s like a dark lord sitting on his throne. A devil. A monster. A villain.
“You don’t seem to grasp the situation, so let me explain it to you for the last time, Lia. You’re my wife, my property, my thing. That means you walk the line I trace and make the decisions I allow. If I say you leave your will at the door, you do. If I say you will walk blindly into a well, you will. In my house, my word is law and my decisions are final. If you feel the need to defy me, by all means, do. I’ll enjoy every second of whipping you into submission.”
My name is Winter Cavanaugh. I’m not Lia Volkov and I’m no way in hell this madman’s wife.
