I shrug. “She’ll need something suitable for driving Alya.”
“Of course.” Arseny nods, face mock-serious. “Because the only suitable vehicle for school transportation is a three-hundred-thousand-dollar tank with custom leather seats.”
Timur shifts uncomfortably, clearly unwilling to join in on mocking me but equally unwilling to defend such an obvious extravagance.
“And her personal car?” Arseny presses.
“Aston Martin DBX. Matte gunmetal. Delivered yesterday,” I say, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Arseny whistles low. “From a Toyota to a Range Rover and an Aston Martin. I’d say Mrs. Belov officially graduated to the big leagues.”
“You have concerns about my expenditures?” I ask Arseny.
He holds up his hands in surrender, but his eyes are still laughing at me.
“Not at all. I simply find it interesting that a man who once spent twenty minutes berating me over the cost of printer paper is now casually purchasing luxury vehicles for a wife he claims is just a contractual requirement.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “Fuck off.”
“Look,” he pushes on. “I’m simply suggesting that moving her business here, buying her expensive gifts, threatening men who glance in her direction… these are not the actions of a man fulfilling a contract.”
As if on cue, my office phone rings. I press the speaker button, and her voice crackles through the line, bright and effortlessly provocative.
“Hello?” Bella’s voice fills the room, hesitant but with that undercurrent of defiance that seems to color everything she does. “I… I’m sorry to disturb, but it’s an hour past lunch, and I’m wondering if you guys—you know—eat? Or is sustenance beneath the mighty Belovs?”
Timur’s eyebrows shoot up at her tone. Arseny’s mouth quirks into an amused smile.
“We eat,” I reply, my voice betraying nothing of the unexpected pleasure her call brings. “What do you need?”
“Recommendations, mostly,” she says. “My assistant suggested some place called Pushkin, but I got the impression that’s not exactly ‘grab a quick sandwich’ territory.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
“So…”
“So I’ll come get you,” I say before I can think better of it. “Five minutes.”
There’s a pause. “Oh. I didn’t mean… I can just—”
“Five minutes,” I repeat, then end the call.
Arseny is watching me with undisguised glee. “Just a contract,” he mimics.
I ignore him, already mentally cataloging what else she’ll need. Proper clothes for Los Angeles elite restaurants. Evening wear for the inevitable functions. Her wardrobe was pitiful—I saw it myself when the staff moved her things. Cheap fabrics. Practical cuts. Nothing befitting a Belov.
Before Arseny can open his damn mouth again, my personal phone buzzes on the table. A notification from our events team. I scan it once, and my jaw tightens.
“Change my schedule for tonight,” I order.
Timur straightens. “The Summit?”
“I’m not going alone,” I say, already reaching for the speakerphone. “Tell the organizers I’m bringing my wife.”
Timur nods once, already making notes in his ever-present tablet.
Arseny, the bastard, leans back with a smile that says he’s won something.
“Natasha Winters will be disappointed. She’s been trying to get you alone at these events for years. And what about theothers? Half the women in that room have warmed your bed at some point.”
