The gallery is quiet when I arrive, the morning light streaming through the windows and illuminating the carefully curated pieces on display. My assistant, Claire, looks up from her desk, a smile on her face. She knows something has changed about me over the past six months, though she doesn't know what. I've become more guarded, more careful about what I reveal. It’s made our friendship a little more difficult, especially when my friends met Ilya and I wasn’t able to answer all of their questions about him, but we’ve worked through it.
My life is more complicated with Ilya in it, but I’ve never once felt that it’s not worth it.
"Good morning." I come around the front counter, looking through the mail. "Anything urgent?"
"A few emails from a client who wants you to source a piece for them," she says, handing me a folder. "And a delivery arrived for you about twenty minutes ago."
I take the folder, looking at her curiously. "A delivery?"
She gestures through the open door to my office, to a large box on my desk—matte black with a silver ribbon wrapped around it. There's no return address, but I don't need one. I know exactly who it's from.
I bite my lip against a smile. "Thank you, Claire. Hold my calls for a bit, would you?"
She nods and I walk into the office, closing the door behind me. My pulse picks up as I touch the edge of the box. I’m no stranger to gifts from Ilya by now, but I’m willing to admit that I never get tired of them.
I untie the ribbon and lift the lid, pushing aside layers of tissue paper to reveal a dress—a stunning floor-length gown in deep emerald silk that I know will fit me perfectly. Ilya knows my measurements as well as I do. Beneath it there’s a jewelry box containing a pair of drop earrings, alternating diamonds and emeralds that will nearly brush my shoulders. And beneath that, a card in his handwriting.
Tonight. Eight o'clock. The address below. Wear this.
I trace my fingers over the words, feeling the familiar thrill of anticipation mixed with something that feels dangerously close to contentment. Six months ago, a note like this would have felt like a command, an assertion of control that I would have resented. Now it feels like an invitation, a promise of something I want as much as he does.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of emails and client calls, authentication certificates and shipping arrangements. I've become adept at compartmentalizing, at keeping the different aspects of my life separate. A collector calls about a Monet that's recently become available, and I discuss brushwork and provenance while mentally calculating how the sale could be structured to move money for one of Ilya's operations. It's a dance I'm still perfecting, a balancing act between legitimacy and criminal activity, and I'm better at it than I would ever have guessed.
By the time I close the gallery at six, I'm exhausted but also humming with anticipation. I take the box home and spend an hour getting ready, wondering where it is that we’re going tonight. The dress fits like it was made for me, hugging my curves before flowing to the floor in a cascade of silk. The earrings brush against my throat, and I put my hair up to show them off to their best effect. I keep my makeup simple but dramatic—dark eyes and nude lips, and put on a pair of heels that will bring me nearly to Ilya’s height.
Kazimir drives me to the address on the card, an exclusive restaurant that I know Ilya’s been wanting to visit for some time. It’s the type of restaurant where you only get a reservation if you know someone, and the hostess recognizes me as soon as I walk in. I’m led through the huge dining room with a vaulted ceiling painted with cherubs and pegasi like an Italian chapel, back into a private room.
Ilya stands as I enter, and the sight of him still has the power to steal my breath even after six months of waking up beside him. He's wearing a charcoal suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders and lean build, his light blond hair buzzed short, his icy eyes tracking my every movement with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. He's beautiful in a dangerous way, like a dagger or jagged ice… and he’s mine.
Wholly and completely, as I’m his.
"Mara.” His accent caresses my name as I step into the room, letting him pull out my chair as his hand lingers on my shoulder for a moment. The touch sends heat racing through me, a reminder of all the ways he knows my body, all the ways I crave his hands on me.
We’ve both come so far. There’s still possessiveness in him; there always will be, but I’m not a prisoner any longer. And he’s learning how to believe, with every week and month that passes where I’m safe, that he won’t lose me forever just by giving me my freedom.
The dinner is delicious: salt and pepper prawns for an appetizer along with a cheese plate and expensive wine, and an entree of scallops with a delicate risotto. Ilya orders us cheesecake for dessert, feeding me bites in the candlelight, before he finally puts his napkin down and stands.
He moves around the table to where I’m sitting, and I tilt my head back to look up at him. His hand comes to rest on my throat, not squeezing, just holding, his fingers brushing against the diamonds at my neck. His collar, on my throat.
"This is beautiful," he says, his voice low. "But I don't think you have enough diamonds yet."
My heart stutters as he reaches into his pocket and produces a small velvet box. He opens it, revealing a ring that takes my breath away as he goes down to one knee next to me.
The ring is stunning—a bezel-set emerald-cut diamond in platinum, three carats at least, the thin band sleek and plain. It’s elegant and minimal and luxurious, exactly my style, and I stare at it, then at him.
"Six months ago, I would have demanded," he says quietly, his eyes locked on mine. "I would have told you that you were mine and expected you to accept it without question. But you'vechanged me, Mara. You've made me better—made mewantto better. So tonight, I'm asking. Will you marry me?”
I stare at the ring, at him, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me. Six months ago, if someone had told me I'd be here, accepting a proposal from the man who stalked me and kidnapped me and forced me into his world, I would have thought they were insane. But that was before I understood what we could be together, before I learned that love doesn't always look the way we expect it to, that sometimes it's dark and complicated…and beautiful despite all of that.
"Yes," I whisper, and I know that there could never have been any other answer. "Yes, I'll marry you."
He slides the ring onto my finger, and it fits perfectly. Then he's pulling me to my feet and kissing me, deep and possessive and tender all at once, and I kiss him back with everything I have, pouring every drop of love I feel for him into the kiss. When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and dizzy and happier than I have any right to be.
We celebrate with champagne, making plans for our future. Ilya breaks it to me that we’ll have to have a large wedding, the type of wedding that’s expected for thepakhanof two territories, and I agree, all the while thinking of Annie. I haven’t told her who I’m with, what my life has become, and I’m not sure how to explain all this to her—how to bridge the gap that's grown between us over the past six months. It’s been the one dark spot in all of this, and I hate how much I’ve missed by being so distant.
"There's another surprise," Ilya says as we're finishing the champagne, his hand covering mine on the table. "Tomorrow. Something I've been planning."
"What is it?" I ask, but he shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips.
