I want you. Not just for this arrangement.
My stomach flips. That’s the dangerous part. The part that makes my knees weak and my throat tight. If I let him in—if I let that intensity touch the parts of me I keep locked up—I won’t survive him.
But hiding in this room won't change the answer. I roll my shoulders back. I’m doing this for Galina.
I press a palm to my belly, forcing a breath into my lungs, and head for the door.
The west wing is his territory. The air changes the moment I cross the threshold. It’s cooler here, smelling of lemon polish, old leather, andhim—a crisp, sharp scent of expensive soap and night air.
The last door is ajar. A sliver of golden light cuts across the Persian runner.
I lift my hand and knock on the heavy wood.
“Enter.”
The command vibrates through the door. I push it open. The library is pristine. Floor-to-ceiling shelves hold thousands of leather-bound volumes, but there is no dust here. Everything in the Aslanov estate is maintained to an obsessive standard. A massive mahogany desk dominates the center, gleaming under the warm light of a banker's lamp.
Igor stands by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The suit jacket is gone. He wears a black Henley that strains across the width of his shoulders; the sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms.
He turns.
His gaze snares me. He catalogs me in a second—the rumpled scrubs, the bare feet, the way I’m gripping my left elbow to hide the ring.
“You wanted to see me.” He lifts the glass to his lips.
“You told me you wanted your answer today.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “I did.” He tips the glass toward the wingback chair. “Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
His eyes narrow. A challenge. He nods once, setting the glass on the corner of the desk. He leans back against the mahogany, crossing his arms. He is a coiled spring, static electricity humming in the air between us.
“Are you marrying me?”
I take a breath. Skydive off the cliff. “I am.”
He nods—just a nod. Like, I didn't just sign away my life. I straighten my spine. “I have conditions.”
He arches a brow, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “They are?”
“I want to finish school.”
“Done.”
“I want independent access to my money. I don’t want to have to ask you for cash every time I need something.”
His eyes tighten at the corners. “You don’t trust me?”
“I’ve learned not to trust anyone.”
He stares at me for a beat, then gives a quick, jerky nod. “You’ll get a small deposit before the wedding to help pay for any arrangements. A larger deposit after. A no-limit credit card and a monthly allowance. All in your name. I cover the card. Fair?”
The numbers he lists make the room spin. I blink, trying to keep my face neutral. “Fair.” I swallow hard. “If this doesn’t work out… I want to be able to leave. Whenever I decide.”
“Nyet.”
The word is a slate wall dropping between us.
