Maksim's expression shifts. Not surprise, exactly. Interest. "Why?"
"Does it matter?"
"It might."
I lean forward, let my voice drop into something cold and precise. "My father sold me to pay his debts. I'm not going to stand at the end of an aisle and pretend he's handing me over with paternal pride and love. I'll walk alone, or this whole production can go straight to hell."
Silence. He studies me, weighing costs against benefits, calculating whether this particular battle is worth fighting.
"Very well," he says finally. "Although it's not ideal for appearances."
Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
"But," he continues, and my stomach drops, "in exchange, you'll need to move in. Immediately."
"What? No." I shake my head, adrenaline spiking. "We already discussed this. We agreed separate residences."
"That was before you asked to walk alone." His voice is maddeningly reasonable. "We're renegotiating. The Albanians are suspicious of the engagement. They need to believe this marriage is real, which means we need to live together. Make it look authentic."
"You said—"
"Circumstances change. Terms adjust. That's how negotiations work, Victoria." He pauses, lets that sink in. "You know that."
I do know that. I just didn't expect him to use my own tactics against me quite this efficiently.
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, final.
Except it's not fine. Living under his roof means I can't slip away to handle the things I need to handle. The operations that can't pause just because I'm playing house with a mobster.
But I can work with this. I've worked with worse constraints.
I'll be so difficult, so demanding, such an insufferable princess that he'll be begging me to leave within a month. Death by a thousand tiny inconveniences until moving me out seems like the only logical solution.
I can do this.
The waitress returns with our food, setting plates down with cheerful efficiency. My tartare looks perfect with ruby tomatoes arranged like art, cashew cream drizzled just so. Maksim's beetroot carpaccio is exactly what he deserves: thin slices of vegetable pretending to be something substantial.
I watch her set down his plate, and that sharp feeling between my ribs intensifies.
Time to start the performance.
I hate this before I even open my mouth.
"Excuse me." My voice comes out sweet as honey, cutting as glass. I squint at her nametag. "Jelena, is it? This isn't what I ordered."
Jelena blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"The cream." I gesture at my plate with one manicured finger, the diamond on my hand catching light like an accusation. "I specifically said warmed. This is barely room temperature. And the chickpeas—" I pick one up between thumb and forefinger, examine it with theatrical disdain "are soft. I said crispy. Do you understand the difference?"
Jelena's face flushes red. "I... I can take it back—"
"Please do." I push the plate toward her with barely concealed contempt. "And perhaps pay attention this time. I understand following instructions can be difficult, but I did speak quite clearly."
She mumbles an apology, scoops up my plate with shaking hands, and hurries away. As she turns, our eyes meet for half a second, and I plead her silently to play along and she nods in understanding.
The women at nearby tables have noticed. Their laughter dies down, replaced by whispers behind raised hands and knowing looks.
Good. Let them see Victoria Ainsley being exactly what they expect. A spoiled socialite with too much money and too little grace.
