“Very much.” For some reason, the words create some strange sensation in my chest. “You’re the most important thing in my life, Katya.”
Using her real name instead of her cover identity feels like claiming something that was never mine to begin with. It took weeks of investigation after the Borisenko family’s first approach to uncover the truth—digging through FSB personnel files, cross-referencing facial recognition databases, and calling in favors from contacts in government circles who owed me more than money.
When I finally saw her real dossier, complete with her actual name and service record, I was stunned. Katya “Kotyonok” Sidorov, elite operative, trained killer, and the woman who’d been playing me for a fool.
“Katya.” She tests the sound. “That feels right. More than the name they used—Alexandra.”
Because it’s her real name, though she doesn’t know that.
“The doctors were confused about your identity after the accident,” I explain. “Some of your identification was damaged in the crash. I had to provide them with copies of our marriage certificate to clear things up.”
Another lie, but she accepts it without question. The truth is, it didn’t take much more than a large donation to get the hospital to accept anything I said as gospel.
“Are you ready to come home?” I ask.
“Home.” She tilts her head to the side and asks, “Do you think I’ll recognize it?”
“We can hope. And if you don’t, we’ll make new memories.”
Dr. Novikov returns with discharge papers and a bag containing her personal effects from the night of the explosion. I sign everything while she changes into clothes I brought—jeans, asoft sweater, and comfortable shoes that will help her feel less like a patient and more like a woman starting over.
I build her story on the drive to my penthouse. Our first date at a restaurant in Arbat. Her laughing at my bad jokes. Falling asleep during a movie and swearing she didn’t.
None of it happened, but I make it sound real enough that she smiles despite her confusion.
That smile should disarm me. Instead, it makes me hard. I’ve imagined breaking that mouth with kisses more times than I’ll admit.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says as we drive through Moscow traffic.
“Different how?”
“Gentler. You sound like a romantic, but you look like a man who’d never buy a woman a rose.”
I almost laugh. Romantic isn’t a word anyone would use to describe me under normal circumstances.
“You bring out the best in me,” I tell her, which might be true in a twisted way.
She turns to look out the window, watching the city pass by, and her platinum blonde hair falls over her shoulder. I resist the urge to brush an errant strand from her face. “Do I work? I mean, you said I was an art curator, but did I work after we got married?”
“You ran the contemporary art division at the Tretyakov Gallery. You were working late the night of your accident.”
“What kind of art do I like?”
“Modern pieces, mostly. You always said classical art was beautiful but predictable. You preferred artists who took risks and weren’t afraid to challenge people’s expectations.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. She told me that once when she was trying to deceive me, and now here I am, using it as part of my plan.
“That sounds like me,” she replies thoughtfully. “Or like who I want to be.”
We pull into the private garage beneath my building, and I guide her to the elevator that leads directly to my penthouse.
I’ve spent the past two weeks having my people create evidence of our fictional marriage. They’ve planted photos, personal items, and legal documents that will pass any scrutiny.
“This is beautiful,” she breathes as we enter the main living area.
The penthouse is impressive, with enormous windows overlooking the Moscow skyline, expensive furniture arranged to look comfortable rather than showy, and carefully chosen art pieces that support her supposed career as a curator.
But the real masterpiece is the collection of photographs I had created. Professional-quality images showing our fictional relationship over the past two years.
