Page 132 of The Wrong Brother

Stepping aside, I slide the chain back on the door and gesture for her to come in. All the way in this time, which she does, the sneakers she has on are dirty from the path outside.

The fire crackles gently as we sit across from one another, its warmth filling the silence between us.

From the kitchen comes the comforting clink of mugs and the whistle of a kettle beginning to heat.

Neither of us knows where to begin.

Frank returns a minute later, carrying a rustic tray with three mismatched mugs balanced on top. Steam curls lazily from each one, carrying the scent of chamomile and mint through the cabin. He sets the tray on the low coffee table before settling into the armchair opposite us as though it were perfectly ordinary to pour tea moments after pointing a gun at someone.

Victoria wraps both hands around the mug without drinking. The warmth seems to steady her, though her fingers still tremble against the ceramic. She stares into the tea for several seconds before finally lifting her eyes to mine.

“I left.”

The words come quietly. Even though I’d already figured that out myself, it’s still surprising to hear her admit it.

“I don’t mean I walked out for the evening. I left.”

My stomach knots. “He hit you again?”

She gives a tiny nod. “Not tonight.” Her laugh is hollow. “Tonight he mostly screamed.”

Frank doesn’t interrupt. Neither do I. Victoria takes a careful breath, collecting herself before continuing.

“I kept telling myself it would get better after the wedding. That the pressure would ease, that campaigning and the media were making him...” She searches for the right word before giving up. “...him.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No.” She smiles sadly. “It got worse.”

The fire pops softly behind us. Frank is sitting stock-still, and I can’t help wondering how much of this he already knows about. Did Ruslan tell him about what Andrei does to women? About what he did to me?

“I think he knows he’s losing control,” she says. “Every morning there are more phone calls. More shouting. Staff members he used to trust are suddenly traitors. Reporters are idiots. Advisors are incompetent.”

Her gaze shifts toward me.

“And then there’s Ruslan. He’s obsessed with him.”

That sounds right. I bite my lip, tempted to tell her that it’s the same for Rus—that he’s fixated, determined to see this through. It’s a strange thing for Victoria and I to commiserate on.

“He pretends he isn’t, but he talks about him constantly.” She lets out another tired breath. “He says Ruslan is trying to destroy everything he’s built.”

I glance toward Frank. He remains perfectly still, but Victoria’s puffy eyes narrow as she looks back and forth between us.

“I’m guessing that’s true. I thought so. So I came here because I want to help.”

I grip the arm of the couch, surprised enough to slip forward a bit. “You do?”

“I married him because I thought he was kind. All the philanthropy and…” Her voice cracks. “I thought I was marrying a man who cared about people.”

She looks down and tucks her hands up into her sleeves. I don’t need to see them to know what’s there. Bruises on her wrists, on her forearms.

“I was wrong.”

“He’s good at seeming like he cares,” I say lamely, torn between the urge to protect myself and this baby and the instinct to reassure her. Her eyes soften as if she knows what my intentions are.

Then she looks toward Frank. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t expressed anything on those distinguished features.

“I know Ruslan is coming after him,” she says, firm and business-like. Frank doesn’t deny it, but I can sense his interest now.