“I’m not doing it.”
“That’snothow these truces usually work.” He shakes his head and starts flipping a wrench in the air, then bends back into the exposed engine. “So what’s the plan then?”
“I have six months before my dad steps down. And once I’mpakhan, I’m vetoing this bullshit.”
“Can you do that?” he asks from inside the hunk of metal.
“Apakhancan do anything he wants.”
He stands up straight again. “Listen, man,I support your ambition to ransack the monarchy and rewrite the rules. But six months is a long time to kick the can down the road.”
“You think I haven’t already thought about that?”
Maverick is unfazed. “Oh, I’m sure you have. So that’s why I ask—what’s the plan? Theactualplan?”
“I’m not going to marry her, I can tell you that much.”
“Even you can’t delay this shit that long. You’d have to marry someone else to stop those wedding bells from ringing. And no, I won’t marry you. You’re not my type.”
For a beat, I almost tell him to fuck off. Then the gears catch.He’s right.My idiot best friend actually had a good idea for a change.
The only clean way to jam up an unwanted wedding is to make it legally impossible. If I’m already married, then I can’t exactly get marriedagain,can I?
No. They’d have to find some other way to make their pathetic truce work. The cameras would pivot, the fathers would grind their teeth, and “tradition” would run headfirst into an unyielding brick wall.
A contract marriage—that’d do it. Fast. Quiet. Paperwork airtight—prenup, NDA, timelines, an exit clause dated six months and one day from now. Something that looks holy to the public and reads bulletproof to the lawyers.
But who is reckless enough to play the part?
Marrying a clueless civilian would mean putting a bullseye on her forehead—one tabloid headline and the Chadovich jackals would smell blood and pounce. Another Bratva daughter just tightens the leash around my throat. A socialite keeps the optics clean, but the leaks would never stop.
What I need is someone who can obey orders, keep secrets, handle pressure, read a room without asking questions. Someone who already knows the schedule I live and the masks I wear. Someone already in my orbit.
Someone like…Amara.
I decide I’m tired of the conversation, grunt goodbye to Maverick, and head home—to my penthouse, not the estate. The last thing I feel like dealing with is other people, and when your family owns a twenty-thousand square foot mansion, people think they can come when they like and stay as long as they please. You never know who you’re going to run into.
As I drive downtown, I ponder. Maverick is right about one thing: Jenica is physically attractive. But that doesn’t change several factors.
One, I am not going to bend to arranged marriage, Bratva tradition or not. I’m no fucking puppet.
Two, I need more than a Pilates-sculpted ass and a pretty face if I am going to come home to the same woman every night. Jenica may be a good lay (I assume; I don’t know and have no intention of finding out) but that doesn’t make up for the blood running in her veins.
I get home, park, and take the elevator upstairs. I hang my keys on the hook as the door closes behind me and reset the lock. I change it every couple days—one of the many security layers necessary when you walk around with the name Rozanov. The code is already different than it was when Amara was here.
My mind flickers back to the other day. To seeing her with that dipshit at the Thai place, his hand territorially clamped on her upper thigh. The panic in her eyes that her supposed-to-be friend didn’t even notice because she was too busy batting her eyes at her own date.
Amara… I can’t believe I’m even considering it. She is a woman, though, isn’t she? A smart, hard-working, dedicated woman whoshouldn’t be hanging out with gutter-dwelling imbeciles with cheap tequila on their breaths, wandering hands, and nothing but fucking on the brain.
Who’s to say she couldn’t play the role?
I set the thoughts aside. I’m going to drive myself fucking crazy like this. I take a shower and go through the motions of shedding all the skins I have to wear as Ransome Rozanov.
CEO.
Futurepakhan.
Friend.
