I try to look away, but I’m unable to stop staring at his firm ass and long legs. I’ve never witnessed such a perfect physique before, but it’s not only about that. It’s the way he carries himself and the sheer confidence he exudes, even while naked.
It’s a vulnerable position for most people, but Adrian’s acting as if he’s dressed in a sharp suit. It takes a lot of mental discipline to give off such a vibe.
That’s both fascinating and dangerous.
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.
It takes me a few seconds to shake my head and stop ogling him.
As soon as he leaves, I lock the bathroom door before I strip and take a quick shower. I trust no one, and Adrian is at the top of that list.
When I’m finished, I wrap myself in a robe, cover my hair with a towel, then crack the bathroom door open. After I make sure no one is there, I step into the bedroom and notice another door in the corner that leads to a walk-in closet.
I carefully go inside and startle when an automatic white light flicks on. I stop to study endless rows of clothes, accessories, and shoes. On the left, there are countless suits and shirts, mostly black, gray, and dark blue.
Adrian clearly doesn’t prefer flashy clothes, and that’s understandable. He’s striking enough without them, and these types of colors suit his mysterious character.
On the right, the colors are lighter, more varied, but they’re…boring. Just like the dress I wore yesterday, most of what I assume is Lia’s wardrobe is composed of suit skirts in muted colors like beige, caramel, and gray. Her dresses are straight and knee-length. There’s not a single pair of jeans, a denim jacket, or anything that doesn’t look like it’s mimicking the Queen of England’s style.
It feels weird to rummage through a dead woman’s clothes, but I do so anyway because I really don’t want to wear another dress and killer heels today.
After what seems like hours of searching at the back of the closet, I find cute jean shorts and a pink tank top that reads ‘Special.’ Although I would usually go for the heaviest, warmest clothes with the weather, Adrian’s house is hot, so I can wear these inside. I put them on and use a pink scarf as a belt for the shorts since they’re a bit bigger. Lia and I don’t perfectly match in size, after all.
One less item on the creepy scale.
I don’t find any sneakers, so I settle on pink flats. I use a scarf that’s similar to my belt to gather my hair into a long ponytail.
Staring in the mirror, I smile, satisfied with the result. However, my smile soon disappears when I recall that when I was pregnant, I bought matching mother-daughter clothes like these so we could dress alike.
I never got the chance to.
Refusing to get caught up in memories of her, I step out of the room and stare to my left, then my right, trying to determine where the dining room is located. I assume it’s downstairs and take the steps unhurriedly. Or more like, warily.
Even in daylight, this place still gives me the chills. Actually, scratch that. It doesn’t only give me the chills, they keep mounting with every minute I spend within these walls.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs, wondering where to go from here.
“Mrs. Volkov?”
At first, I don’t recognize the name, but then I turn around, realizing it’s Lia’s and, therefore, mine.
A middle-aged woman, who appears to be in her late fifties, stares at me with a blank expression. She’s tall, way taller than me. Her blonde hair with white streaks is gathered into a tight bun and she has a square face that, coupled with her rigid expression, makes her look like that high school teacher we all had, whose class no one dared to breathe in.
She gives me a once-over as if I’m not respecting the school’s dress code.
“Yes?” I don’t sound convincing, but I’m also not sure how to act. If I ask her where the dining room is, won’t that immediately cast me as an imposter?
“What are you doing here?” Her accent is Russian, though subtle.
“I’m searching for Adrian.” At least that sounded a bit plausible.
“Follow me.” She turns and strides to the left, not waiting for me to follow.
I have no choice but to do so, so I go after her down a long hall. She opens a set of double doors and motions at me to go inside.
I do, conscious of every footstep I take.
A breath leaves me when I find Adrian sitting with the little boy from yesterday—Jeremy.
I’m pretty sure my relief has to do with the child, not the father. Despite my reaction at seeing Jeremy for the first time, it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with myself and the past that’s still wrapped around my throat like a noose.
Adrian is dressed in black pants and a dark blue shirt. Grim, non-flashy, and so much him. He lifts his head as soon as I come in, but I quickly avert my gaze, not wanting to be trapped in those ashen grays first thing in the morning.
The rigid teacher walks to an empty seat on his left and points at it. “Your breakfast is ready, Mrs. Volkov.”
I hate that name, the fact that I’m an extension of Adrian. That his last name is mine.
But at the mention of the word ‘breakfast,’ I don’t have time to ponder it. When was the last time I had dinner, then breakfast like a normal person?
Probably a week ago when Larry brought us sandwiches. And they didn’t smell as divine as the bacon and eggs on the table. I miss Larry and wish I could take him some of what’s here.
As soon as I sit down, I’m aware of three pairs of eyes watching me like I’m an alien. What? I didn’t even start eating yet, and I was planning to do it slowly, not like the pig I was last night.
I slowly raise my head to find Adrian’s darkening eyes holding me hostage.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“What are you wearing?”
I stare down at myself and realize what they’re all looking at. “Clothes.”
“I know they’re clothes.” He lowers his voice, and I assume it’s because he doesn’t want Jeremy to hear how much of a dick his father is. “But those are not your clothes.”
“Yes, they are. I found them in the closet.” Opting to change the subject, I take a piece of bread and smile at Jeremy, who’s dragging his spoon through the jelly on his plate. “Do you want a sandwich instead?”
I didn’t know what I expected as a response, but a scowl certainly wasn’t it. He glares up at me, hand tightening around his spoon. Aren’t I supposed to be his mother? Maybe I’m his stepmother?
“I’m not talking to you.” He pouts.
“Jeremy,” Adrian scolds.
“She left, Papa! She’ll do it again.” He dangles his little feet down before he hops off his chair. “I’m full.”
And with that, he turns to leave.
“Jeremy!” I call his name, but he’s already running out of the dining room.
I ignore my breakfast and stand up to follow him. I don’t care if he’s not my child, the pain in his face was so raw.
No kid deserves to feel strong emotions like that. I know better than anyone, considering my own childhood.
Adrian clasps a hand around my wrist, keeping me in place. “Don’t follow him.”