Mikhail
I glance back at Maria, and her gaze is curious as she stumbles after me down the narrow flight of stairs. My own oversight led to the door being unlocked that other day, and I can hardly blame Maria’s curiosity for wanting to know what was in the room.
After all, she was granted freedom to roam and explore the penthouse, and I set no boundaries.
I didn’t expect her to wander down there. As much as I dislike the idea that she’s caught a glimpse of a piece of me that I keep hidden from the world, a part of me is secretly glad she’s seen it.
I wasn’t ready to tell her the truth then. But I am now. I want her to see me for more than the wealthy criminal she thinks I am.
Her eyes widen when we stand before the heavy door. Fear creeps into their hazel depths as she imagines one terrifying scenario after another.
“Mikhail, please,” she begs. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I?-”
I cut her off with a stare. “Do you trust me?”
“I …” she stammers, but her denial dies in her throat as curiosity overpowers her fear.
I place my hand on the door, a single thread of trepidation making me hesitate.
Can I actually trust her?
But as I stare into her eyes, I am convinced that Ican. So, I push the door open and allow her to walk down the long, familiar corridor. The familiar scent of paint and turpentine fills the air, and Maria walks down the path through the rows of half-finished paintings that rise like tombstones.
“What is this place?” she whispers as she walks.
“It’s where I come to … dabble.”
“Wait …” she stops in her tracks and turns around. “Are you telling me that you painted these?” She turns back, lifts a delicate finger, and points at the chrysanthemum flower. “Even that?”
I stare at the angry flower petals, my mind swirling with memories of a long, tearful gaze, wisps of hair dancing in the wind, and the sound of a child screaming in horror against the howling wind.
“Yes,” I reply. “Eighteen years ago.”
“It looks like the painting you commissioned from Kaori.” Her eyes remain fixed on the canvas. “But it feels different.”
I step close behind her to look at the painting. Even in this room, I can feel the breeze of eighteen years ago snapping at my heels. “How so?” I ask, wondering what she might say.
“It’s angry.” She steps closer to it. “But there’s also hurt.” Bending over, she puts her face close to the painting and examines the details. “Helplessness.” Her hand rises up, and for a moment I’m afraid that she wants to touch the delicate paint. But she doesn’t. Instead, she points at the single red line dripping along the bottom petal. “And guilt.”
I close my eyes. With just a few words, she manages to reach a part of me that has been locked away for so many years that I thought it had died. A part of me that understands cruelty as well as I do creativity, a part of me that dwells in both the beautiful and the grotesque, and a part that yearns for another person to awaken it again.
“You’re right,” I say.
A frown passes over her lips. Is she trying to reconcile all the contradicting parts of me into one person? Is she trying to make sense of the monster who’s keeping her in his tower?
She looks away, her eyes drawn to the sketches of chrysanthemums I’ve pinned to the wall. “Why the chrysanthemums? They’re everywhere.”
I stare into her hazel eyes in the dim light. The cool, still air of the studio presses down on us with the weight of a thousand unspoken words.
Can I tell her? Am I capable of telling her? Can I trust her to keep this part of me a secret from the world?
When she doesn’t move, I have my answer.
“It’s easier if I show you.” I lead her toward an antique armoire in the corner near a long, empty wooden table. The doors open and reveal several thin drawers. I pull open one of them to show her a collection of carefully arranged wooden boxes.
I lift out a box and open the lid. Pressed between two plates of glass is a chrysanthemum, each petal carefully preserved in perpetuity. I hand it to Maria, and she holds it in her hands. She stares at the flower while I gaze at her.
“The chrysanthemum was my mother’s favorite flower,” I explain quietly when she hands the box back. “This penthouse belonged to her. This studio was where she taught me how to paint. And it is the last piece of her that I still have left.”
Maria bites her lower lip as she listens to my words. Her eyes blink rapidly, and I hear a slight sniffle.
“Larissa tells me you blame yourself for her death,” she says. “Why?”
“Confiding too much in Larissa is dangerous.” My gaze fixes her in place. “For you and for her. She’s grown fond of you, and in her fondness, she forgets who and what you are.”
“The daughter of an alleged traitor to the Bratva,” she replies. “And your future wife.”
“Yes,” I say. The weight of that word hangs heavy in the air.
“Don’t I deserve to know the man I’m about to marry?” Undeterred, she steps closer and places her hand on my chest. Her touch is like a live wire, sending a surge of electricity coursing through me from the gentle softness of the gesture. Her innocent eyes goad me to reveal my secret to her. Emotions war in my chest as I wonder if I should tell her.
Fuck it, I decide. If she wants to know the monster in front of her, then she will.
I take a breath and cover her hand in mine.
“She killed herself because of me.”