Just a phone call. Because that's how his world works. Youwant something, you make it happen. Rules that apply to normal people don't apply to Ivan Petrov. Waiting lists, reservations, six-month advance bookings—none of it matters when you're Pakhan.
I study the menu harder, trying to focus. French names I can't pronounce. Descriptions that sound more like poetry than food. Duck confit with cherry gastrique and something-reduction. Seared scallops with cauliflower puree and microgreens I've never heard of. Wagyu beef.
Everything sounds completely wrong for someone like me.
What am I doing here?A week ago, I was serving coffee to truckers at 3 a.m. Now I'm in a Valentino dress, trying to figure out what "gastrique" means without looking stupid.
The waiter appears as if he materialized from the air. Older man, salt-and-pepper hair, perfectly pressed uniform. His smile is professional.
"Good evening." His voice is smooth and cultured. "May I start you with drinks?"
Ivan orders wine without looking at the menu. Something French. Premier cru. Grand cru. Words that mean expensive.
The waiter nods like he expected exactly that choice. No surprise Mr. Petrov would order the most expensive wine. Anything less would be insulting.
Then he looks at me, waiting and expectant.
My mind goes blank.
What was I looking at? The duck? The scallops? Why can't I remember a single thing from this menu?
Ivan's hand meets my thigh under the tablecloth. Warm and solid against the silk of my dress. His thumb starts tracing circles slowly. The kind that short-circuits your brain and makes coherent thought impossible.
"I'll have—"What was I going to order? Duck. No. Scallops. Maybe."The, um?—"
His thumb presses slightly harder, right at the sensitive spot where thigh meets hip. My brain completely whites out.
"She'll have the salmon," Ivan says smoothly. "With the risotto."
The waiter writes it down. "Excellent choice. I'll have that out shortly."
He disappears as quickly as he came.
I turn to Ivan, trying to summon some indignation. "I can order for myself, you know."
"Could've fooled me." His hand stays on my thigh, still doing those circles. Still making it impossible to think. "You looked distracted."
"Right. Like that wasn’t your fault."
"Hmm." A seriousness settles into his eyes. The intensity build, the playfulness fading into a heavier truth. "You need to be ready."
My stomach flips—the kind that signals a turning point, one I’m not ready to face.
"For what?"
He leans slightly closer. The restaurant noise fades. All the conversations and clinking glasses and low music—it’s all background static. Now it’s just him in this moment.
"Remember the steps, little dove?"
Oh God, the steps. Our absurd progression from kidnapping to whatever this is. From captive to lover to—what? What comes next?
My heart hammers against my ribs. The restaurant suddenly feels too hot. Too crowded. Too full of people who might witness whatever's about to happen.
"It's time for the final step."
The words land like an ending and a beginning at once.
"Which is?" My voice comes out smaller than intended. Breathier.
