Misha drives and doesn't speak. He knows better than to interrupt when I'm in this mood—the one where my brain splits between business and her. Between empire and emotion.
We pull up to the curb. Gold awning. Marble steps. Designed to intimidate.
Lila looks at the building. "This is a store?"
"Boutique."
"What's the difference?"
"About ten thousand dollars per item."
She makes a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite panic. "Ivan?—"
"Out of the car." I'm already opening her door and offering my hand. "Don't make me carry you."
She takes my hand and steps onto the sidewalk in those borrowed heels that are half a size too big. She wobbles slightly.
I steady her, my hand finding her lower back. Possessive. Clear.
At that exact moment, I see him: a uniformed cop. He’s standing at the corner, radio on his belt, gun visible. He’s young and likely hasn't learned yet that this street belongs to people who own police commissioners.
My heart skips. Then races.
This is her moment. Her true test of loyalty.
If she still sees me as the monster who took her, as the kidnapper, instead of the lover, she could run. It’s fifty feet at most to that cop. All she’d have to do is tell him she was held against her will. That she's been missing. That I'm dangerous.
She'd be right about all of it.
They'd arrest me. Here. On Oak Street, where everyone would see. The Pakhan taken down by a girl in a red dress and a rookie cop who wouldn't understand what he'd done.
The empire would fracture. Dmitri would move in. My men would scatter. Everything my father built would crumble because I chose her over sense.
I wait.
My hand stays on her back. Light. Not holding. Not forcing. Just present.
She could walk away.
I wouldn’t stop her. I couldn’t. Not here. Not with witnesses and flashing badges.
But she doesn’t. She doesn’t even look at the cop—just keeps close, hip brushing mine as we pass him.
The relief hits like a punch.
"Good girl," I murmur, low enough only she can hear. "You made your choice."
She tilts her head up, eyes narrowing a little. "What choice?"
"The cop," I say, keeping my tone even. "You saw him."
"Hard to miss a uniform."
"And yet," I say, leaning in, "you stayed."
"Where else would I go?"
Inside smells like leather and money. Perfume layers under it—probably the hundreds of bottles opened and tested by women whose receipts regularly exceed six figures.
