“Jesus, boss.” He shakes his head. “You’re marrying the woman tomorrow.”
“It’s a business arrangement.”
“Tell that to your daughter.” He turns the car onto the private road leading to the penthouse complex. “And to the woman you just let slap you in public without consequences.”
I ignore the dig. “The cathedral will be ready by noon?”
“Everything’s set. Ceremony at two, reception at four.” He smirks. “If your bride shows up, that is.”
“She’ll be there.”
“You sure about that? Because I’ve got Dmitri and Viktor watching her, and according to them, she’s been on the phone with someone since she got home.” He raises his eyebrows. “Sounded like she was trying to figure out how to get out of this.”
I feel a spike of irritation. Not at Isabella. At the idea that she thinks she has a choice.
“She can plan all she wants,” I say, my voice cool and even. “She signed the contract. She takes my name tomorrow, or she loses everything.”
Arseny nods, pulling up to the secured entrance of the penthouse. “And if she tries to run?”
“She won’t get far.”
The security gate opens for the SUV, recognizing the vehicle. Beyond it, my penthouse rises, sleek and modern, lights already on. Someone’s waiting inside—probably Timur with final security details for tomorrow.
“Father Mikhail’s been briefed?” I ask as we pull into the underground garage.
“Yes. Traditional ceremony, slightly abbreviated. He knows the drill.”
I nod, satisfied. Everything in place. Everything as it should be.
Except for the lingering burn of her palm against my skin. The echoing crack of the slap. The shock and defiance in those cobalt eyes.
We park, and I make a decision.
“I want her watched tonight. Not just the apartment—I want to know if she makes any calls, any attempts to contact anyone. If she tries to leave, I want to know immediately.”
Arseny nods, suddenly all business. “Consider it done.”
We exit the car, footsteps echoing in the concrete garage. I’m already mentally reviewing tomorrow’s schedule, already picturing Isabella at the altar, already—
“You know what I think?” Arseny says as he falls into step beside me.
“I don’t recall asking.”
He grins, unbothered. “I think you like it.”
I level him with a stare that would make a smarter man shut his mouth.
“I think,” he continues, his grin widening, “that after years of women falling at your feet, terrified to even breathe wrong around you, along comes this one who spits fire and slaps you in public, and instead of putting her in her place, you’re sitting here thinking about how good she’s going to look wearing your ring.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Because the worst part is,he’s fucking right.
I get out of the car without another word, slamming the door with more force than necessary. Through the window, I see Arseny laughing to himself, shaking his head like he’s just witnessed something historic.
And maybe he has.
Because tomorrow, Isabella Marquez becomes mine. To have. To hold.
