And then, his gaze lands on me.
That impossible shade of smoke-washed blue, a color that seems to shift with the light—or the danger level. He drags his gaze over me from head to toe. Not a glance. Not a casual once-over.
Adiagnosis.
Like he’s cataloging weaknesses, assessing the threat level, deciding whether I’m worth his time or just another pawn in whatever game he’s playing.
Something in my stomach tightens. Annoyance? Anxiety?
No, it’s worse. Anticipation.
Then, he stands.
Slowly. A wall of tailored power unfolding to his full, unfairly large height. It’s an old-fashioned move—rising as a woman approaches the table—but from him, it feels like something else entirely.
A statement.
A warning.
You will sit at my table. You will listen to what I say.
My pulse betrays me for a half-second, my breath catching like it’s trying to keep up. I hate that my body reacts before my brain can tell it to calm the hell down.
I take the last step forward and grip the back of the chair before he can do it for me. It’s petty, a meaningless act of defiance, but his eyes flick to my fingers curled around the wood, and I swear, for the briefest moment—he almost smirks.
He is fucking enjoying this.
Like he’s amused by the fact that I think I have a choice.
I sit.
He follows.
Neither of us speaks immediately. The silence stretches between us like something physical, something I could reach out and snap with my fingertips if I were brave enough. Instead, I focus on the menu—leather-bound, heavy enough to use as a weapon in a pinch. The prices are conspicuously absent, which means everything costs more than the legal fight to keep my family home—and that involved actual blood.
A waiter materializes at my elbow, appearing so suddenly that I nearly jump out of my skin.
“May I offer you something to drink, madam?” His accent is crisp, European, like he was imported, along with the wine list.
“Vodka,” I blurt out. “The strongest you have. Actually, just bring the bottle.”
The waiter’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—amusement or judgment, I can’t tell which.
“The lady will have water,” Konstantin counters smoothly. His voice is that perfect blend of polite and commanding that rich people seem born knowing how to use. “And I’ll have the Macallan 25.”
Jerk.
The waiter nods and vanishes, taking my liquid courage with him.
I narrow my eyes at Konstantin. “I don’t recall asking for a designated driver.”
“You’ll need a clear head for this conversation.”
“Oh, will I? Well,gee, you think?” I lean forward, dropping my voice to a hissing whisper. “Maybe I needed a clear headbeforeI signed up to marry a man who neglected to mention he’s the head of the Russian fucking mafia?”
I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, in my throat. My face burns with a cocktail of fear and rage and something dangerously close to humiliation.
“Are youkiddingme?Bratva?”
