2010
With her chin held high, letting the wind playfully tousle her hair, the young woman breathed in the crisp morning air with pure bliss, surrendering completely to the power of the noble creature beneath her. As the horse broke into a light gallop, it carried her farther from the chaos of everyday life, deep into the heart of the forest.
Margarita cherished these moments of unity with nature. The sound of hooves on untrodden paths and the sensation of the spirited horse’s taut muscles under her—her only friend, silent but unwaveringly loyal. She loved watching how it snorted comically and pinned its ears back at the slightest hint of danger. How it quickened its pace, striving to protect not just itself, but also the one it bore responsibility for at that moment. Unlike people.
She adored escaping the urban grind and the heavy, burdensome thoughts that hadn’t left her for years. In these moments, she felt free from her past. Independent. Like the wind weaving through the canopy of trees. Like Passion, her horse, who, sensing her rider’s mood, galloped today with extraordinary zeal.
Passion—a stunning Arabian mare with a fiery, vibrant coat. One of a kind. Still young, but the best in the small stable.
This magnificent horse had been purchased for Margarita about a year ago by Kirill, on his own initiative, for several tens of thousands of dollars at the “Arabian Horse Days” in Poland. A birthday gift. An extravagant one. Though Kirill always aimed to please and never spared expense, knowing her love for speed and horses, he couldn’t resist splurging on Passion.
Why Passion? Margarita believed that everything in this world could be measured by a single standard, and its name was passion. Take, for instance, the basic craving for alcohol or the destructive plague of recent decades—drugs. Passion existed in everyone and for everything. In the overweight, for food. In collectors, for vintage cars, rare stamps, or other exclusive trinkets. Passion for weapons or exotic animals. Passion for travel and luxury. Passion for power. Passion for money. Passion for the opposite sex, ultimately. Many called it a hobby or dressed it up as something fancier—love. But no matter how you phrased it, the essence was the same: passion. Everything began with passion and ended with passion. Passion distorted everything.
This prized animal was Margarita’s passion. But it wasn’t why she was so attached to the mare. They were alike. Margo, like the bay horse, had always been the object of someone else’s passion. At first, it irritated her to no end, grating on her nerves. She wanted to prove to the whole world that she didn’t have to be an object of desire or depend on anyone. But even from a young age, she harbored no illusions. Eventually, she resigned herself to the unpleasant role, going with the flow. She realized that even from such a position, she could reap substantial benefits. Sure, it sounded cynical and selfish, but how else should she treat those around her when, to them, she was nothing? Just another passion, another craving.
Once she stopped believing in fairy tales and learned to see things for what they were, she broke free from the vicious cycle and achieved the impossible given her circumstances at the time. She gained independence, taking full control of her destiny. She learned to live differently, putting people in their place and not letting anyone use her. Now, she chose her own objects of passion and decided who to let in and who to push away without a shred of guilt.
For the past few years, she’d allowed only Kirill to desire her. Margo couldn’t say she felt anything too deep for him, but she liked Roshchin. With him, she felt calm and content. Roshchin had become the safe harbor she’d long sought, and now she was one hundred percent certain that this kind of life suited her just fine. Compared to what she’d endured before, her current existence felt like paradise on earth. And she had no intention of ruining or sacrificing it for anything. Especially not for some sudden passion, which, thankfully, wasn’t on the horizon.
Enough passions! Over the years, she’d experienced more of its manifestations than most people could handle in a lifetime. She deserved a peaceful, steady existence, free of unexpected twists.
“Easy now, girl!” Margo tugged on the reins as Passion, reaching the riverbank, stopped at the edge and greedily munched on the still-green grass. “Sorry, little one, but it’s time to head back. We’ve got big things ahead.”
She wanted to return just as little as the mare did. She’d have loved to stay here for a couple more hours, but work wouldn’t wait. Sometimes, even when you’re in charge of your own life, you can’t change certain things. Today, she was at the mercy of circumstances that forced her to act against her own desires, bound by obligations.
What an unpleasant word—obligations. Obligations above all, right now above her own passion for solitude, freedom, and silence. Because of these damn obligations, Margarita would turn around and ride back, diving into solving current problems. She wouldn’t let herself fall apart or show her true feelings. She’d long learned to hide them. Back in the day, that skill had worked in her favor, and it would help her now.
The ride back to the stable felt even quicker and shorter than the journey to the forest. It’s always like that when you don’t want to return. No matter how much you delay, the end of the road is inevitable.
Emerging from behind a wide grove, slowing Passion from a gallop to a light trot, she noticed a dark figure near the house, growing closer with each moment. Soon, she recognized Kirill. Hands in his pockets, with an air of complete dissatisfaction, he was walking toward her.
As the mare slowed down, Margarita dismounted. With one hand, she took the reins and led the horse forward, while with the other, she waved warmly at Roshchin, calling out:
“Good morning, Kirill! What brings you here so early?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replied indifferently, catching up to her. Casting an appraising glance at the horse, he added, “Couldn’t sleep again? You could’ve taken it easy today. You know we’ve got important negotiations ahead.”
“Kirill, what’s with you?” she asked, stopping by the gate that fenced off the paddock. She grabbed a brush from a hook and started grooming the mare’s mane. “What does it matter, negotiations or not? I haven’t been here in ages, and I missed Passion so much. You know how much I love early fall and sunrises…”
With that, she gave him a pitiful look, fully aware that only sincere words could touch and calm him. Roshchin couldn’t resist her pleading tone and the intense gaze of her brown eyes. Margarita had used this advantage more than once.
She watched Kirill, trying to catch the changes unfolding before her eyes. There he was, still frowning, irritably tapping his fingers on the fence, huffing loudly. Squinting, he studied her face. Displeased, but soon he stopped the nervous fidgeting and calmed down. His stern expression slowly but surely softened. The creases on his forehead and around his eyes gradually smoothed out, and the wild spark in his gray eyes faded, replaced by tenderness.
Roshchin could be tough, even ruthless, and he never hid it. But it was in these moments of tenderness that Margarita liked him most. She’d had enough cruelty to last a lifetime. Perhaps that’s why Kirill tried not to show her the darker side of his nature.
Having crossed into his fifties a few years ago, nearly fifteen years older than her, Roshchin was still in excellent physical shape. There was no sagging belly, so common among men of his age and social circle, nor any signs of encroaching old age. His impressive physique was the result of regular workouts he never missed. Far from the conventional ideal of male beauty, like an Alain Delon, he was handsome in his own way—with a raw, almost primal masculinity. He was a Man with a capital M, easily outshining Margarita’s peers and emerging victorious. Only the faint gray at his temples, which he adamantly refused to dye, claiming it wasn’t manly, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, which appeared when he was annoyed, betrayed his mature, experienced nature.
“I know, that’s why I put up with your antics, Margo,” Kirill remarked with a slight smirk.
Indeed, probably no one else could have endured as much with her as this man had. Though Roshchin knew from the start what he was signing up for, he wasn’t afraid. That was another key reason Margarita respected and, in her own way, loved him. Not the way you’d love a man you plan to spend the rest of your days with, but she loved him nonetheless.
It was Roshchin who had once pulled her out of the mire she’d fallen into due to her own foolishness, inexperience, and a cruel twist of fate. It was Roshchin who made her start life anew, helping her erase—if not from memory, at least from her heart—what she’d been through. He wasn’t afraid to get involved with a woman deemed dirty and unworthy of the normal world by most. On the contrary, he shut everyone up and helped her become who she was now—Margarita Odintsova. Confident, successful, wealthy, and capable of turning men’s heads while leaving them with nothing. She could exact revenge for her suffering and pain. She could inspire envy in other women. And with a triumphant smile, she could take on any challenge, knowing in advance who’d come out on top. Her, Margarita Odintsova, and no one else.
From now on, she wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of defeat. That was in the past. Just like the naive, foolish little Rita who’d been ensnared by inevitable tragedy. No one and nothing would force her to return to that old, gullible version of herself.
“And for that patience, I value you the most,” she admitted, not a hint of insincerity in her voice.
“Oh, really?” Roshchin teased. “I thought you valued me most for the winery business.”
“Sorry, sorry! The company is definitely the main reason to value you,” Margarita giggled, letting the stable hand who’d emerged from the guardhouse take Passion away.
“That’s what I thought,” he said jokingly, pulling Margo toward the luxurious mansion. Turning serious in an instant, he added, “You know why I’m grumbling? You haven’t forgotten that in a few hours, we’ve got a crucial meeting where pretty much the entire fate of ‘Golden Grove’ is on the line?”
“How could I forget something like that?”
Margarita glanced at Kirill, once again marveling at his sudden bouts of worry. Here was a strong, confident man who had everything one could wish for, yet sometimes he acted worse than a child, blowing small issues out of proportion.
“You’re being sarcastic for no reason,” Roshchin sighed with concern, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “If it weren’t for that damn ‘Pearl’ with their out-of-nowhere fancy vineyards, we’d have long been in the top five wine producers in the country.”
“And you’re telling this to me? The person who’s not exactly last in line when it comes to promoting and exporting our products abroad?” Margarita’s expression darkened as she stopped by the porch. “Kirill, I’m well aware that if we manage to bring them under our wing at today’s meeting, by tomorrow we can consider ‘Golden Grove’ officially part of ‘Internal Group.’”
“Exactly, Margo, exactly!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm. “These aren’t just sky-high prospects! This is official recognition in Europe, something we’ve been striving for!”
“Kirill, I remember,” Odintsova snorted, lacking his fervor.
“Then tell me, Rita, why, instead of preparing for this important meeting, are you out here messing around with that… Passion of yours at the crack of dawn?” Roshchin pressed, unrelenting. “You could’ve rested after a hard week. We’re not heading back to the capital for at least three days; you’ll have plenty of time to admire your mare.”
“Kirill!” she tried to interrupt.
“What, Rita? Am I wrong?”
“Kirill, I’ve asked you a hundred times not to call me Rita!” she said reproachfully, ignoring his other comments.
“Here we go again,” he waved dismissively. “Why make a mountain out of a molehill?”
“No, Kiryusha, it’s not making a mountain,” Odintsova shrugged nonchalantly, stepping away from him.
“Margarita!” Roshchin snapped, wincing as if in pain. “I’m not some woman for you to baby-talk like that.”
“Well, maybe that’s the only way you’ll get my request,” she smirked, turning to head into the house.
“Alright, alright, Margo,” Kirill corrected himself, emphasizing her name.
“There we go. I’m off to get ready, since someone’s getting all worked up,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, everything will go perfectly. The meeting with our little-known competitors will definitely bring us the recognition we need.”
Stepping back, Odintsova hurried up the steps to the porch. Quickly, as if afraid of being caught at a crime scene, she slipped through the massive oak doors into the mansion, styled in a modern country aesthetic. Though the house was enormous and lavishly furnished with some of the most expensive pieces, it retained the age-old traditions of the past. Of those who, long before anyone could imagine the conveniences of modern civilization, grew the finest grapes and crafted exquisite wines. Recipes passed down to descendants, among whom, fortunately, was Kirill Roshchin.
Roshchin. Golden Grove. If you thought about it, there was a certain connection. Either the surname came from the name of the village, or the village grew thanks to one of the bearers of the name. It didn’t matter how long ago it all happened. What mattered was that, through decades, if not centuries, Golden Grove remained one of a kind. Not Massandra, which emerged at the turn of centuries with its famous landmarks, old and renowned, nor Koktebel, which had turned into a flashy, trendy resort.
Once a small working village on the banks of a river that flowed deep into the sea, half-surrounded by dense forests and, on the other side, vast endless fields where the best grape varieties ripened nearly year-round. Now, it was a prosperous settlement where, besides the locals, many prominent figures in the country longed to buy a plot to enjoy the stunning landscapes and excellent wine while vacationing. Yet it wasn’t so hyped up as to be overrun by relentless tourists.
This house… No, not just the house—the entire settlement was Kirill’s pride. He was rightfully considered the unofficial lord not only of the vineyards but of the whole village. Largely thanks to him, people had jobs. He helped and bailed them out of trouble. Once, he prevented an old, decaying enterprise from collapsing and, within a few years, restored Golden Grove to its former glory and beyond.
Margarita loved this place to death. She never imagined she’d find such a corner of the world where she could feel free and happy. Here, it was exactly like that. From her first visit to the village, she understood and embraced the house and everything around it. She adored coming to the Grove, escaping the oppressive hustle of the capital. The peace saved her from despair, bringing her back to life time and again. Only here did she allow herself the incredible luxury of forgetting. Forgetting what could never be erased from memory. Here, the pain dulled, no longer echoing inside with a grating screech. For that alone, the place was worth cherishing. And Margo did cherish it.
Sadly, due to business, she could rarely make it to Golden Grove. She’d have loved to stay here forever, but Kirill, insisting he couldn’t manage in the city without her, kept Margarita by his side. She could’ve easily insisted on her way, thrown a fit, or been capricious, but Roshchin had done too much for her to simply refuse his small request to stay close. Odintsova didn’t refuse, accompanying him on trips and helping with business matters where she had some expertise.
A similar event was scheduled for today and, fortunately, coincided with long-awaited days off and a return to the Grove. Some unknown gentleman, who insisted on remaining anonymous until the face-to-face meeting, the owner of a newly established winery with the peculiar name “Black Pearl,” categorically refused to meet in the capital to discuss business, declaring that if Roshchin was interested in any collaboration, he should come himself. Luckily, the residence of this Mr. “X” wasn’t far from Kirill’s estate.
It was unheard-of audacity toward someone as influential as Roshchin. Not in terms of material wealth, but in the intangible respect, power, and esteem he commanded. Either the stranger was unaware, or he’d decided to challenge Kirill’s reputation. The latter worried Roshchin the most, though he didn’t show it.
In any case, at today’s business lunch, Odintsova planned to do whatever it took—persuade, coerce, anything—to get the owner of “Pearl” to agree to a merger with “Golden Grove.” This would secure the long-awaited official international recognition for the company, which, with the emergence of young but highly promising competitors like “Pearl,” was now in serious jeopardy. Even if it meant deploying her full arsenal of feminine charm. Margarita knew exactly how she affected men and skillfully used it, without crossing any forbidden lines.
Suppose the stranger refused, riding the wave of newfound, dizzying success. But fleeting success was deceptive in its transience. What’s quickly gained is even easier to lose. Margo preferred to hope that this unknown figure was far-sighted enough to understand the unwritten rules of business.
In her efforts to focus on a positive outcome, the time allotted for getting ready for the lunch flew by. It was still early, and the meeting place, compared to the pretentious capital, was more casual, so Margo opted for a daytime cocktail dress made of satin in the shade of autumn leaves. It barely reached her knees and perfectly accentuated her figure. She paired it with cute stilettos on thin heels. Her hair was left loose, curled at the ends. She completed the look with light makeup and gold earrings with small pearls in the center. Simple yet tasteful. Just right to highlight her special position in Roshchin’s company.
In the foyer, Margarita was met by a visibly anxious Kirill. Dressed in a black business suit, he was, as always, the epitome of elegance, focus, and courtesy. Once again, she noted to herself how lucky she was to have snagged such a remarkable man.
“You look great today,” Roshchin ventured, offering a rare compliment.
“Thanks,” she replied with a brief nod, taking his offered hand.
Without another word, they left the house and headed toward the SUV parked nearby. In the capital, Roshchin preferred a driver, believing the time spent driving could be better used tackling urgent matters. Margarita didn’t entirely share his view, unable to imagine life without speed, but she tried to understand. Today, however, he did without the extra luxury, as the only thing on his mind was the potential deal with “Pearl.”
The short drive along the village road passed in silence. Margarita knew it was pointless to try calming Roshchin down. Kirill was too consumed by his worries to let go of them so easily.
As they approached the designated location—a vast property surrounded by high fences—he couldn’t hold back a low whistle of astonishment.
“Damn. Tell me, where do these upstart, devilish businessmen get so much money?”
Kirill rarely allowed himself to speak in such a tone around Margo. In any other situation, she would’ve been offended by his words, but today, she was ready to agree with every remark.
The sight that unfolded before them as the intricately carved metal gates opened in front of their car was staggering. A massive pond with almost crystal-clear water, where domesticated swans glided gracefully, seemed to block the path to a three-story residential house made entirely of wooden beams. Wide driveways lined with exotic plants—whose names Margo likely didn’t know—stretched around the pond. Truly, no one could forbid living in such luxury.
Odintsova suddenly doubted their chances of success. If someone lived in such an ostentatious mansion, they were unlikely to settle for questionable partnerships. The “superiority complex,” as she’d long dubbed such traits, was palpable in the mysterious Mr. “X.” If she hadn’t endured so many hardships herself, she’d be urging Kirill to turn around and head back, canceling the meeting. Back home. To their cozy, peaceful little world. But she was far too proud to turn back halfway. She wouldn’t this time either, no matter what awaited behind the walls of this house.
Before Margarita and Kirill could even step onto the porch and ring the bell, the door swung open, revealing an elderly woman, around sixty, dressed in a starched apron and cap. If the intent was to impress them, it nearly worked.
“Good afternoon,” the woman greeted politely, stepping aside to let the guests in. “Please, come inside. You’re expected.”
With a grunt, Kirill followed the housekeeper, who led the way. Margo hurried after, glancing around as they walked. Inside, the house was just that—a house. It wasn’t as grand as it appeared from the outside, but it was cozy and inviting. Mostly due to the primary material used in its decor—wood, which could make even the most pretentious structure feel warmer.
Margarita’s thoughts were interrupted as they entered a hall where a dining table was set for lunch. On the opposite side stood a leather sofa, a pair of armchairs, and a glass coffee table. Nothing excessive, all in good taste. The scene was completed by a small but authentic fireplace, enclosed by a wrought-iron grate, where logs crackled softly. She didn’t have time to take in more details. Her gaze was involuntarily drawn to a male figure standing by the window, his back to the door. Tall and muscular, he wore black linen pants and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows. In the dimly lit corner where the stranger stood, it was hard to make out much else. The sunlight streaming in blinded her eyes.
“Ahem…” Kirill cleared his throat to draw the host’s attention after the housekeeper left without a word. “Good afternoon. We’re here as agreed.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Roshchin,” the stranger replied slowly, his voice carrying a slight rasp as he turned around.
Margo watched, almost mesmerized, every movement of Mr. “X.” When he fully turned and stepped forward, the bright light illuminating his face, she barely suppressed a gasp of shock that nearly escaped her lips. She might not have been as stunned to see the Virgin Mary herself standing there, but certainly not this person, now so close.
Staring at a man who was both painfully familiar and yet a stranger, into his still fathomless, piercing blue eyes, she had no idea how to react. If a meeting like this had happened ten years ago, she might’ve collapsed on the floor in a faint, like some delicate damsel. But time hadn’t passed without leaving its mark on Margarita. She’d long learned to conceal her true emotions and be prepared for any surprise. Yet now, she genuinely didn’t know whether to feel joy or… sorrow.
Standing before her was the man with whom her last hope of salvation had once vanished. A man she never dreamed she’d meet again in this lifetime. Alive. A man she had once buried for good, along with her past.