by Sienna Blake
Beautiful Revenge
A Good Wife Novel
____________
Sienna Blake
Beautiful Revenge: a novel / by Sienna Blake. – 1st Ed.
First Digital Edition: September 2017
Published by SB Publishing
Copyright 2017 Sienna Blake
Cover art & paperback formatting services by Romacdesigns: http://romacdesigns.com.
Cover art copyright 2017 Romacdesigns. All Rights Reserved Sienna Blake. Stock images: shutterstock
Content editing & proofreading services by Book Detailing.
Proofreading services by Proof Positive: http://proofpositivepro.com.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
Beautiful Revenge
Introduction
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2
3
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5
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Epilogue
Dear Readers
BONUS: Love Sprung From Hate
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Acknowledgments
Books by Sienna Blake
About Sienna
Introduction
Dear Readers,
As this book is set in England, it is written in British-English (such as ‘colour’ instead of ‘color’ and ‘realise’ instead of ‘realize’).
Dedicated to all of us imperfect humans who have ever erred.
And to those who love us enough to forgive us.
1
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Alena
There is a locked wooden box I hide under my bed. I only dare to take it out when my husband is away.
I stand at the edge of the tall casement window in my bedroom and peer around the curtains, my fingers gently pulling the thick pallid-blue satin aside. Mist hangs across the moors beyond the Worthington Manor grounds, the early morning light making everything seem dusky. Half-real. Like I’m still dreaming.
I’m just in time to see the dark figure of my husband duck into the back seat of his silver Bentley, parked in the gravel driveway below that curls around the towering marble fountain. The uniformed chauffeur shuts his door and marches around to the driver’s side. My heart rate climbs steadily as the vehicle purrs down the mile-long carriage driveway, past the lake, and disappears through the cluster of trees that edge this thousand-acre estate.
I force myself to count down five minutes just in case he has forgotten something and decides to return. I made that mistake once.
…three…two…one.
He’s gone.
He won’t be back for two days this time.
My body trembles with relief as I close my curtains completely, leaving my room lit only by my vintage shell-like bedside lamp.
I don’t go to the bed. Not yet.
I tread on soft, thick carpet, across the expanse of my room to my door, painted the same robin’s egg blue as my curtains. In fact, this exact weak, placid shade of blue is the only colour accenting my ash wood, marble and cream room, overly decorated with crystal chandeliers, antique furniture and a ridiculous number of fringed pillows.
I turn my doorknob and peer outside into the second-floor hall. Worthington Manor, an early Georgian countryside mansion, has been in my husband’s family for over three hundred years, or so I hear him boast at dinners and parties. The marble hallways stretch along in two wings, with dozens of rooms branching off on either side. The high vaulted ceilings and walls are all crammed with intricate cream plasterwork, making me feel like I live inside a wedding cake.
I listen. I hear no one. Not the footmen or maids. Not even Emily.
I close my door again. My bedroom is lockable but only my husband has the key. As far as I’m aware, he either takes it with him when he leaves on business or he hides it somewhere. I’ve looked for it during his absences, late at night when the rest of the house is asleep. I could never find it.
I run to my unmade bed and fling myself to the lush carpet beside it, another victim to the washed-out blue colour. My fingers shake with greed as I reach underneath, find purchase on the grainy wood and tug it out. The moment my eyes land on the simple mahogany box, a little bigger than an Old Testament Bible, a brass lock on the front, my throat starts to swell from the inside. I can feel the memories pressing up against me, tapping like hungry beggars against glass. I can hear his ghost whispering from over my shoulder. Like he’s standing right behind me, brushing the hair off my neck, lips tracing my earlobe.
Alena Ivanova…
I stumble to my feet and collapse onto my bed. I pull the box into my lap, my fingers clutching it as if it were a forgotten child. It’s an anchor tying me, my past, and my present together.
Until the end of time, Alena…
I draw out the locket at the end of a long silver chain around my neck. I crack it open and pull out the hidden key inside, my fingers slipping slightly as they have now gone clammy. My breathing shakes out through my teeth as I push the key into the rusty lock.
Why do I do this to myself? Every time I open it, it cuts open this old, unhealed wound. I can’t help myself. I can’t bear to throw this box away. I can’t let go. Perhaps this pain that I force upon myself is my only way to absolution, self-flagellation in the hopes it will one day redeem me from my greatest mistake.
I turn the key with a slight effort, hearing the familiar click. I’m surprised when water drops onto the lid. I’m
crying, hot tears leaking like blood from my eyes. I don’t wipe them away.
I take a breath and open up my past.
They are all there, each piece I saved, nestled in the red velvet heart. Each jagged memory. I pull out each item one by one. I hold it, caress it, before placing it aside on my bedcover:
a shredded piece of white lace for an innocence left behind,
a broken piece of vinyl for a love song that would never be mine, and finally…
a photo.
A photo of a man with stormy hair and summer’s-day eyes.
2
____________
Alena
Five years ago…
Nothing is as cold as a Russian winter. It’s the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, turning your marrow to ice. The kind of cold that stabs at your lungs every time you inhale. That slides under your nails like splinters, turning your fingers blue. I shiver and huddle further into the layers of mismatched blankets that we’ve scavenged from various places. It’s not even winter yet. It’s barely November.
God help us when winter really starts.
I feel him shift behind me on our tiny mattress, rusty springs protesting every movement. His arms wrap around me, pulling me back against his hard body. I melt into him. I can barely feel his body heat with the layers of clothes we both wear. When he holds me, the warmth comes from the inside.
I shift around until I am facing him, our breaths making a tiny tropical planet between us. It’s my favourite planet, his and mine. The moon is full. It shines straight through the thin, cracked window pane, giving everything in our cramped St Petersburg studio apartment a silvery glow. I gaze at him through my lashes, my breath catching in my lungs. He is the most beautiful man in the whole wide world. Not that I’ve ever left St Petersburg. Even if I did, I know that no one else could hold a candle to Dimitri Volkov.
He has midnight hair that’s long overdue for a haircut. It sits like a thunderstorm, dark and wild around his head, making him look like a kind of devil. He has high chiselled cheekbones, a strong jaw, thick lips sculpted in a cupid’s bow. Deep-set eyes that can flash with cobalt fire and brimstone or invite me to drown in them like a secret lagoon. Women look at him all the time when we walk together. His beauty is obvious. But he only ever looks at me. Only me.
He is mine, the only thing that’s ever been mine. And I am his.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he says in Russian, his voice deeper than other nineteen-year-old boys. It’s a man’s voice. It takes on this gravelly tone when he’s telling me off, the one that he has right now. The one I secretly get a thrill out of.
“Someone was snoring,” I tease, hoping to get a rise out of him.
He lets out a snort. “I was not.”
“Like a bear. Holding a chainsaw.”
He laughs. I love the sound, deep and rich, rumbling through my chest like approaching thunder, plucking at something inside of me. “You’re mixing your metaphors. But when you’re a famous writer, everyone will be using them.”
I withhold a sigh. “One day, I guess.”
He shakes me lightly, staring right into me. “You will. You can do anything, Alena.” His tone is firm, daring me to deny his words. He has more confidence in me than I have in myself.
Sometimes it’s hard to dream of being a writer. Because wanting it, chasing it, believing it, is like reaching for a star and trying to pluck it from the heavens. Impossible. Here on earth we have real problems, like staying warm and getting enough to eat. As if my stomach hears this thought, it lets out a low growl. I flinch, hoping he hasn’t noticed it.
Dimitri frowns at me, telling me he has. “Are you hungry?”
“No,” I lie. I wince when my traitorous belly lets out a louder, more insistent growl.
“Didn’t you eat the sandwiches I left for you before I went to work?” He works so hard, often pulling double shifts at the factory, but he still finds time to make me food for school.
“Yes,” I say, drawing out the word.
Dimitri’s mouth curls up, anger already flashing in his eyes. “Did you eat all of them?”
I chew my lip, guilt winding up an invisible staircase inside me. “There was a young boy, you see, not even ten. He was all alone on the street. Begging. He looked so hungry and cold and—”
“You gave a sandwich to him,” Dimitri says, finishing my sentence. It wasn’t even a question.
“I couldn’t help it. He seemed so much hungrier than I was…” I swallow back the excuses on my tongue as Dimitri’s eyes narrow. I avert my gaze, hoping he doesn’t see what I’ve left unsaid.
“You gave him all of your sandwiches?”
I don’t answer him. I don’t have to. I can never hide from him. He can read the guilty look on my face. He can see everything inside of me.
“Alena,” he says, his voice rising in volume, “I know you want to help him, you want to help everyone, but you’re not helping yourself.”
“I’m fine, Dimi.”
“You are not fine,” he bellows. “You’re starving to death and you’re giving away your fucking food.” His hands shake by my face as if he’s ready to choke me. I don’t flinch. Not at all. Dimitri’s anger is like a flare, bursting out in a mad rush of colour and noise, lighting up the room. But he would never hurt me. Never. I’m as sure of that as I am that the spring will follow winter.
I touch his cheek with my palm. He softens at my touch. His fingers tangle in my hair as he pulls my head into his chest. He lets out a half-groan, half-sigh against my hair. “What am I going to do with you, little lamb?” His soft lips press against my forehead. I feel his kiss all the way down to my toes.
“Love me?” I whisper.
He presses me closer. “I already do. So much.”
My heart tumbles and spins, a glorious dance in my chest. “You worked late,” I say, changing the subject. He wasn’t home when I buried myself in the bed.
“I had to. I think I’m close, Alena,” he says in a hushed tone, his voice vibrating with excitement. “I think I’m really close.”
I glance up at him. “Really?”
He nods, his eyes sparkling like sapphires. “The talk is that they’re letting go of the junior accounts officer. They’re grooming me to fill in.”
I force a smile bigger than I feel to hide my anxiousness. Dimitri isn’t just good with his hands, he’s good with numbers too. He can add up large sums in his head. He can look at a sheet of numbers and make sense of them. The same way that words speak to me, numbers speak to him. He amazes me with his affinity with them. He’s been really close to a promotion and a pay raise for months now. I think his boss—the fat, greedy bastard—just dangles these promises over Dimitri’s head to get him to take on accounting duties without being paid extra for them. Dimitri never sees it like that. He wants this promotion so badly he’s blinded to being used. He’s not the only one of us who dreams of something better.
“Dimitri Volkov, Junior Accounts Officer,” he says in a reverent tone. “I’ll be a somebody. Just think what we can do with this place when I get the pay rise.” He leaps out of bed, flinging back the blankets. I let out a cry as the cold air swirls around my torso. He slaps the on button for the single lamp we own. The bulb flickers before sending its weak glow throughout our tiny shelter. “I will make us a home.”
I sit up, blinking, pulling the blankets up around me. “Dimi, what are you—?”
“A proper fireplace.” He runs over to the crumbling, decrepit fireplace that is never lit, the chimney stuffed full of newspaper to battle against the cold seeping in. “I’ll build you a huge fireplace, one that works, with a thick mantle and a stack of firewood taller than you, so you’ll never be cold.”
I giggle as he jumps across the room.
“And here! Here I’ll put your new desk so you can do your schoolwork.”
“And write,” I add.
Dimi nods, the impossible realities of my dream forgotten as he loses himself in his own
. “A proper wooden desk. Stacks of paper with lines. And pens. Lots of pens. I’ll buy you a large, comfortable chair so you don’t hurt your back sitting cramped over your homework in your lap.” His eyes dart across to another wall. “And bookcases!”
I laugh and clap my hands as he dances around with all the enthusiasm of a child, painting our dreams over this dirty hovel with his hands. His voice gets louder and louder. I’m sure our neighbours have woken up too. He is unrestrained and wild. He is fire and passion. And I love him for it.
He runs to our old vinyl record player, the one we scavenged from a dump site. We couldn’t believe anyone would throw away something so precious. We only have one record, “Stormy Weather” by Billie Holiday. The slow jazz music blares out at full volume, Billie’s voice crooning through the air.
“Dimi! Our neighbours!”
“Let them dance too.” He grabs my hand, pulling me up to my feet. “Dance with me.”
“You lunatic,” I cry with a laugh, “it’s almost midnight.”
“An even better reason to dance, then. For if you dance well enough at midnight,” he says, repeating the beginning of an old folk tale for the hundredth time.
“…the fairies will grant you a wish,” I finish for him.
I wish…
For good food—enough food—and warm furs. For a desk and a working fireplace.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I wish with every cell of my being as the music turns us round and round.
After the song dies and there’s just a crackle, we’re still swaying in each other’s arms.
He lowers his forehead to mine. “I love you, Alena. I want to give you everything. Everything your heart desires. Everything you deserve.”
My heart clenches. He calls me the dreamer. I think, between the two of us, he is more of that than me. “I know,” I say quietly.
He crushes his lips to mine, kissing me long and deep, with the fire of a new-born sun, his tongue fighting with mine. My head keeps spinning even as we stop twirling. And I forget everything.
We are no longer two poor, pathetic wretches on the edge of starvation, uncared for and forgotten. We are stars and light tumbling between the moon and sun. We are wild and free.
