"For drinks, I need an unopened bottle of still water. Unopened. I'll open it myself. Room temperature, preferably the San Pellegrino if you have it, but not the sparkling. And bring me a lemon, sliced, on the side. Not in the water."
"Of course, Ms. Ainsley." The waitress turns to Maksim, smile still in place but slightly strained. "And for you, sir?"
I watch with barely concealed satisfaction as Maksim pages through the menu, confusion flickering across his face as he scans options like "chickpea flour crepes" and "jackfruit carnitas" and "cauliflower steak with romesco."
The restaurant was built for a female audience, every detail calculated, from the grain bowls to the bathroom amenities that go far beyond soap and mirrors. It's a space designed to exclude men, or at least make them deeply uncomfortable.
Maksim is clearly suffering.
"Do you have steak?" he asks finally.
The waitress's smile turns apologetic. "I'm afraid we don't serve meat, sir. We're a plant-forward establishment."
"Plant-forward." He repeats the words like they're in a language he doesn't speak. "What's the closest thing you have?"
"Probably the beetroot carpaccio? It's thinly sliced, served with arugula and—"
"I'll have that." He closes the menu with finality, hands it back. "Rare."
The waitress giggles. Actually giggles, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound.
And something sharp lodges between my ribs. I recognize it immediately: jealousy, hot and irrational, because this woman is laughing at Maksim's joke and his mouth has curved into something almost like a real smile.
I hate the feeling. Dissect it clinically: threat assessment, territorial response, basic primate brain chemistry. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.
The waitress leaves, still grinning, and silence settles over our table.
Maksim's gaze finds mine across the small expanse of linen and crystal. The intensity makes my skin prickle with awareness. He's looking at me the way a scientist looks at a specimen under glass.
"In your father's office," he says finally, "you said you knew who I was. What I do." He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table in a posture that's almost casual except for the steel underneath. "Clarify that for me."
My pulse jumps. Dangerous territory.
I know exactly who Maksim Severyn is. Who all three of them are.
They crawled out of Moscow's underbelly. Fought their way into the Valkov Bratva as foot soldiers, proved themselves with blood and loyalty until they became indispensable. Then, over a decade ago, they orchestrated a coup so brutal and efficient that the Valkov name disappeared overnight, replaced by Severyn.
Took a Russia-based operation and turned it global. Diversified. Legitimized where they could, operated in shadows where they couldn't.
Now they're here, trying to infiltrate power from within by marrying a socialite who can open doors their money alone never will.
I know all of this. But I can't let him know that I know.
I shrug one shoulder, the picture of casual disinterest. "I read the papers. Society pages, mostly. Your name comes up." I pause, let my lips curve slightly. "And considering what my father does for a living, it's smart to keep my pulse on certain... business relationships."
"The papers." His tone suggests he doesn't believe me for a second.
"Should I have done more research?" I tilt my head, all innocence. "Run a background check before agreeing to marry you?"
Silence. He studies me with that unsettling focus, and I force myself not to fidget, not to reach for the water glass again like some nervous debutante.
Finally, he sits back. "You're either very observant or very well-informed."
"Can't I be both?"
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. Something more dangerous. "You can be whatever you want,moya koroleva."
The endearment lands like a caress wrapped around a blade. My queen. Possessive. Proprietary. The kind of thing that should make me bristle but instead sends heat curling low in my stomach, unwelcome and undeniable.
