His palm is warm, calloused in unexpected places, not the soft hands of a man who only signs papers. The scars on his knuckles feel rough against my skin, raised and old. We shake once, formal and binding, sealing a deal that turns the next year of my life into a performance.
I should let go.
Instead, I hold on, let my thumb brush deliberately across those scars, feeling the geography of old violence written into his skin.
His eyes darken. "Miss Ainsley—"
"Victoria," I correct, voice soft and deliberate. "If we're getting married, you should probably use my first name."
"Victoria." The way he says it sounds like a threat and a warning and a promise all at once, three syllables that land like a physical touch.
"We have a deal, then," I say.
"We have a deal," he agrees.
I stand, and suddenly we're close enough that I can smell his cologne, expensive and cold, like winter and money. Close enough to see the exact moment his gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes, the slip in control he can't quite hide.
"One more thing," I say, pitching my voice low, intimate, like we're sharing a secret. "When you negotiate your next marriage? Maybe try dinner first. This whole wet-bikini negotiation has a certain... memorable quality, but it lacks finesse."
For half a second, genuine surprise flickers across his face before the mask slams back down.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says. "For the next wife."
I smile, turn toward the door. Each step measured, deliberate. I can feel his eyes on me, tracking my movement like a predator watching prey walk away.
My hand closes around the door handle. Cool brass under my palm.
I glance back. Maksim stands by the window again, silhouetted against the afternoon sun, looking every inch the cold, calculating Pakhan who just acquired exactly what he wanted.
The door clicks shut behind me.
In the hallway, I allow myself exactly three seconds.
Three seconds to acknowledge the racing of my pulse, the fine tremor in my hands, the cold sweat at the base of my spine that has nothing to do with pool water. Three seconds to feel the weight of what I've just done.
Three seconds. Then I lock it down, straighten my spine, and walk toward my room with my head held high and my feetleaving wet footprints on marble that will evaporate like they were never there.
I just negotiated the terms of my own captivity.
3
VICTORIA
The afternoon sun turns Chicago into a furnace. Heat shimmers off the pavement in visible waves as my driver pulls up to Maison Lyra, and I take a moment before stepping out to adjust my armor.
Cream silk blouse. Tailored trousers. Heels sharp enough to be weapons, expensive enough to be investments. My hair falls in glossy waves over one shoulder, and my makeup is flawless. The careful work of someone who knows exactly what mask she needs to wear today.
Perfect. Polished. Untouchable.
I step onto the sidewalk, and Zakhar Zverev materializes beside the restaurant entrance like a particularly well-dressed threat. Dark suit, hands at his sides, weight balanced, ready to move. Not the fig leaf position today, I notice with satisfaction. Hisgreen eyes track my approach with the focused attention of a man paid to notice everything.
"You're late," he says.
I let my gaze travel up the length of him, taking my time. "Bodyguard duty suits you." My voice drops, honey-sweet with an edge underneath. "All that restrained intensity. It's almost distracting. Tell me, are you always this tense, or is it just me?"
His jaw tightens. Good.
I've been thinking about our last encounter for three days, about the way I made him bristle with a single observation. Men like Zakhar Zverev aren't used to being read so easily, and I enjoy watching them realize their control is an illusion.
