“I know everything about you, Isabella.” He taps a finger against the contract. “Including that your commission won’t cover even half your debt.”
I should run. I should absolutely be sprinting out that door right now. But my feet stay rooted to the floor, and something dark and desperate unfurls in my chest.
“And you’d just… pay it off? Just like that?”
“The debt will be cleared before close of business today.” He gestures to the contract again. “Plus, you’ll be installed as head of sales. Double your current salary.”
I stare at him, searching for the lie, the trap, the fine print written in blood.
I meet his steely gaze, and the worst part? He’s not lying.
He’s not going to chase me. Not going to try to convince me. He’s just… letting me decide.
And somehow, that pisses me off more than if he’d threatened me.
Wait.
What?
Did I actuallywanthim to fight for me? To insist? To show that he—?
Stop it, Bella. Jesus Christ. Get your shit together.
I shake my head as if it will clear my mind.
“Why me?” I ask, my voice smaller than I want it to be. “You could literally have anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone.” His voice drops just slightly. “I want you.”
The words slam into me like a physical force. They shouldn’t affect me. They’re probably just another manipulation tactic in his arsenal.
But God help me, they do.
My eyes drift to the contract between us. Crisp white paper. Black text. The words “MARRIAGE AGREEMENT” staring back at me like an accusation.
He wants me.
My pulse thumps in my ears, drowning out the logical part of my brain that’s screaming about red flags and stranger danger, and oh my God, he’s literally the Russian mob.
I shouldn’t be flattered. I shouldn’t be intrigued. I definitely shouldn’t be feeling this weird, hot sensation spreading from my chest to places significantly lower.
But holy shit—did Konstantin Belov, ruthless businessman and walking sin in a tailored suit, just admit he wants me?
My fingers twitch toward the contract. What exactly does “being Mrs. Belov” entail? There must be rules. Boundaries. Expectations.
Reading material before signing is Real Estate 101. But here I am, considering a contract that has nothing to do with square footage and everything to do with how this man makes me feel like I’m constantly teetering on the edge of something dangerous.
“What’s in it for you?” I ask, trying for suspicious but landing somewhere closer to breathless. “Besides a—wife.” I almost choke on the word. Wife. Mrs. Belov. Walking around with his name and his ring and his… everything else.
His eyes never leave mine as he reaches out, flips the contract open to page three, and slides it closer to me.
“Read it.” Two syllables. A command, not a request.
And yet, my treacherous body responds like he’s whispered something filthy against my skin.
I glance down, trying to focus on legal jargon instead of how his cologne is suddenly all I can smell—sin and masculinity.
“One year,” I read aloud, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. “Public appearances. Exclusive…” My breath catches. “Physical relationship.”
