Crown of Hate (Soulless Empire)

Chapter 10

10

ALYA

Mikhail has gone ghost on me. Three days of barely-there husband, coming and going before I’m even awake. He’s off doing who-knows-what, leaving me alone in his giant house.

I stir in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling. Mama’s face fills my thoughts. It’s been over a week already, and I miss her terribly. My stomach twists. She has probably called non-stop, worried sick, no idea that her daughter is now married to the sworn enemy…

I heave a sigh. Enemy. That’s exactly what Mikhail should be. But he’s my husband now. Mama will be so disappointed when she finds out I wasn’t just forced into the marriage, but that I’m actually attracted to him. How can I explain something I barely understand myself?

Another heavy sigh escapes me as I drag myself out of bed. My feet find my fluffy slippers, a small comfort in this unfamiliar life.

God, I miss my old room, my old life. Everything here feels alien, even after a week.

I shuffle to the bathroom, flicking on the harsh lights. My reflection in the mirror shows a stranger—Alya Zirkhov, wife of Chicago’s most terrifying man. When did I become this person?

A quick shower washes away the sleep, and I throw on some denim shorts and an oversized pink shirt before leaving my room.

In the hallway, Mikhail’s cologne lingers, a subtle reminder of his fleeting presence. I pause, inhaling deep. His scent gives my heart a little flutter and brings a rush of conflicting emotions—frustration at his absence.

I shouldn’t care that he’s gone. I shouldn’t miss him.

But I do. I fucking do.

I force myself to move, trying to push any thoughts of Mikhail out of my head. That’s when another smell hits me—the rich, salty smell of bacon wafting up from downstairs. My stomach rumbles in response. That’s it. Food. Focus on food, not him.

A welcome distraction, I follow my nose towards the kitchen.

As I near the kitchen, I hear movement. Someone’s here. My pulse quickens. Could it be Mikhail?

I step inside, my eyes immediately landing on an unfamiliar figure. It’s not Mikhail, but an older woman with gray hair, expertly flipping bacon in a skillet.

She cranes her neck to look at me, then a warm smile lights up her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Good morning, sweetie.”

“Good morning,” I reply, curiosity overriding my disappointment. I walk to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. “Who are you?”

“I’m Grace,” she answers, and I’m glad she didn’t consider my question rude.

I frown, confusion clouding my thoughts. I’ve met all the staff—the army of housekeepers, the team of chefs, even the gruff security guys. But she’s new. I don’t get it. Mikhail wouldn’t hire a new chef without telling me... would he?

Grace seems to read my confusion as if it’s written all over my face, because she goes, “I know that look. You’re wondering where I came from, aren’t you? I’ve been working for Mr. Zirkhov for years now, long before he left for Russia,” she explains. “Just got back from my yearly vacation. That’s why we haven’t crossed paths until now.”

“Oh.” I perch on a stool by the kitchen island and study her more closely. “I’m Alya.”

A soft smile plays on her lips. “I know exactly who you are, sweetie. And let me tell you, you’re even more beautiful than I’d heard.”

I feel the heat flush my cheeks. I’m still not used to compliments from strangers about my beauty, even though I’ve received them basically all my life. “You’re beautiful too, Grace.”

It’s not empty flattery. Even with the signs of aging, Grace is a looker. Soft features any woman would envy peek through the wrinkles, hinting at a beauty that must have broken many hearts in her youth.

“Oh, I know,” she says, winking playfully. “When I was your age, men were putty in these hands. I had them wrapped around my little finger before they knew what hit them.”

A chuckle bubbles up from my chest, genuine and unexpected. I like her already. She’s real, no BS. “Maybe you could teach me your tricks.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “To get Mr. Zirkhov wrapped around your finger?”

I chew on my bottom lip and nod. The idea is tempting, having that kind of power over him.

“Trust me, child. You’ve already got him hooked, line and sinker.” Using a thong, she picks out the crispy bacon and transfers it to a plate with a flourish that speaks of years in the kitchen.

I open my water and take a long gulp, relishing the icy liquid as it trails down my throat and simmers in my stomach. When I’ve had my fill, I slam the almost empty bottle on the island and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Me? Have Mikhail wrapped around my finger? I doubt that very much.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Mikhail freaking Zirkhov we’re talking about,” I huff, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “He might act like a gentleman, but he’s just a handsome devil in an expensive suit.”

Grace’s laugh fills the kitchen. “So you believe all that talk, huh? The big bad wolf of Chicago?”

“It’s not just talk. It’s who he is.”

“Oh, he can be ruthless when necessary, I won’t deny that. But not to you, dear. If you could hear how that man goes on about you…”

I lean in, curiosity winning out. The island’s edge digs into my stomach, but I hardly notice. “What about it?”

She cracks two eggs into a bowl and mixes it with some veggies. “The man can’t shut up about you. He turns into a lovesick puppy whenever your name comes up. I’ve been back five minutes and he’s already spilled your entire life story. Your likes, your dreams, everything...”

“No way. You’re pulling my leg.”

Grace rolls her eyes, whisking the eggs. “Darling, I’m sixty-three. I’ve known more men than you’ve had hot dinners. I can read them like an open book.”

Sincerity shines in her eyes, warm and convincing. But I choose not to let myself believe her. It’ll completely alter my brain chemistry to know Mikhail likes me even a tiny bit.

I’ll lose my self-control, and I’ll abandon my revenge.

“What exactly did he tell you?”

Grace chuckles softly as she begins to pour the eggs into a hot pan. They sizzle, the smell mixing with the bacon. “Well, for starters, he mentioned your weakness for chocolate chip cookies. How you can’t resist them, especially when they’re fresh out of the oven. And how you like your coffee black with just a touch of cinnamon. Said it’s the only way you drink it.”

My jaw drops. How on earth did he know that? I’ve never breathed a word about my coffee preferences or my secret cookie addiction.

It's weird… but kind of nice. Warmth spreads in my chest, but I squash it down.

“It’s true,” I admit. “But I never told him any of that.”

"Oh, he has his ways, that one. If he married you, you can be sure he already knows everything about you from your shoe size to your favorite color. Probably the name of your first pet too,” Grace replies with a knowing smile. “He may not wear his heart on his sleeve, but he cares about you, Alya. In his own way. He’s not the heartless monster people in Chicago or Russia paint him as. He can feel. And yes, he can hurt too.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy with implication. I watch her cook, mind whirling. The eggs fluff up, golden and perfect. Could it be true? Could Mikhail actually see me as more than a pawn in his grand chess game? The thought both terrifies and intrigues me.

Before I can dwell on it further, Grace slides a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of me. The aroma makes my mouth water. “Here you go, dear. Breakfast is served. Eat up while it’s hot.”

“Thank you.” I close my eyes and inhale more of the food. When I open my eyes again, Grace is filling a cup with milk. She walks the milk to me.

I dig in, savoring each bite in comfortable silence while watching Grace prepare her own plate.

Just as I’m polishing off the last morsel, a commotion erupts from the foyer. The front doors slam open, the bang echoing through the massive house

“Where’s that asshole?” An angry female voice cuts through the air.

I jump, fork clattering to the plate. Who is this woman? And what could Mikhail have done to make her this upset? But more importantly, why would a woman be angry at Mikhail? Enough to barge in here and yell?

A dozen scenarios flash through my mind, each worse than the last. Is she an ex-girlfriend? A business partner he has crossed? Or is it something even more sinister tied to his dark world…

I glance at Grace, hoping for some reassurance, but her smile only sets me more on edge. There’s a glint in her eye, like she’s about to watch her favorite drama unfold. Does she know something I don’t?

I finish my milk in one long gulp, then get to my feet and trudge to the foyer.