Slow. Purposeful.
Click.
The briefcase lock releases.
Oh, no.
I go completely still.
Like a rabbit realizing too late that it’s already in the wolf’s mouth.
His fingers brush over the edges of a thick stack of papers, lifting them with deliberate ease before he slides them across the desk.
My stomach tightens.
A low thud echoes in my ears as the papers land in front of me, neat and pristine.
I stare at them.
Then at him.
His expression is calm. Unbothered. Dangerous.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
Because I already know this isn’t a job contract.
I reach for the stack—hesitant, reluctant, my pulse hammering in my ears—and the first line punches me square in the chest.
MARRIAGE AGREEMENT.
My fingers tighten on the edges of the contract.
I jerk my gaze up, panic latching onto my ribs.
His lips quirk—not quite a smirk, but something worse.
Something final.
“The only way you’re going to make up for breaking into my home,” he leans forward, forearms resting on the desk, his gaze locking me in place, “is to be Mrs. Belov in two weeks.”
21
Bella
“No.”
The word tumbles out of my mouth like a drunk person falling down stairs. Inelegant. Messy. A little hysterical.
“What? No— I mean, no.Hellno.” I push back from his desk so fast my chair nearly tips. “Are you insane? Like, actually criminally insane?”
He doesn’t even blink.
“Your commission will be paid regardless,” he says, like we’re discussing the weather and not some batshit crazy marriage proposal. “You’re free to leave.”
Wait.
