The door clicks shut behind her. Forty-six seconds pass before I allow myself to move. My eyes linger on the space whereIsabella stood, the ghost of her scent—vanilla and fear and arousal—still hanging in the air.
Suka.
Any other woman would have signed already. I wouldn’t have given them a choice. A word to my men, a few carefully leveraged threats, perhaps some blackmail—standard Bratva negotiation tactics. The methods my father taught me before the stroke left him a breathing corpse.
But with Isabella… the thought of coercion leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I want to see her submit willingly. Watch her eyes darken as she realizes what she’s agreeing to. What she’s giving me.
Those curves. The way her breasts strained against her blouse when she tried to appear confident. The flush that crept up her neck when I leaned close. I can still picture her splayed across my bed that night she broke in, pleasuring herself while staring at my portrait.
She wants this as much as I do. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Women have always been disposable to me. Assets to be acquired, used, and discarded when they no longer serve their purpose. My ex-wife was a transaction—an arrangement made on paper, sealed with diamonds instead of passion. Useful until she wasn’t.
Isabella is different. Not because I care for her but because I want her. Physically. Viscerally. A hunger that gnaws at me in ways that are both foreign and infuriating.
That thought—it roots deep in me, twists and coils around my ribs, and settles into something dangerous.
Because for the first time, I am not in control.
I always am.
Always.
But not with her. Not with the way my body reacts, with the way my hand clenches against my thigh instead of where I really want it—on her.
I let out a slow breath, pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose. I should call my men, move on to the next thing. Handle the empire, manage my stepmother’s scheming, prepare for the inevitable power grab that’s been festering since my father fell into a coma.
Instead, I stare at the door she just walked out of.
Forty-eight hours. I’ve given her forty-eight hours when I’ve never given anyone more than minutes to make a decision that affects their life.
The wait will be excruciating. But I’ve always appreciated the things I’ve had to wait for.
I rise slowly, walking to the window that overlooks the street. My eyes track her as she exits the building, that defiant sway to her hips making my jaw clench.
“If you stare any harder, you’ll burn a hole through the glass.”
I don’t turn at the sound of Arseny’s voice. He moves like a fucking ghost—a trait that’s saved my life more than once.
“Did I ask for your commentary?” I keep my eyes on Isabella as she slides into the back of my car, Pyotr holding the door open with that perfect, invisible service that’s become his trademark.
“You pay me for it.” Arseny moves to stand beside me, a manila folder in his hand. At six-foot-four, he towers over most men, but we stand eye to eye. “The employment contracts. All signed.”
I take the folder without looking at it. “That was fast.”
“Amazing what people will do when properly motivated.” His voice carries that hint of dry amusement that’s become his signature. “Though I had to promise Harrison a healthy severance package.”
“Did you now?”
“Don’t worry; it involves a one-way ticket to Arizona and a strong suggestion to forget he ever heard the name Belov.” He pauses and then continues, “My sources tell me your brother is making moves.”
My jaw tightens. “Stepbrother.”
“Semantics.” Arseny shrugs. “Filipp is hosting a dinner tomorrow night for the Petrov and Volkov families.”
“Without consulting me.”
