I should be relieved. Should be grateful for the reprieve.
Instead, I lie awake wondering why. Wondering if this is strategy or restraint or if he’s changed his mind about wanting me at all.
That last thought bothers me more than it should.
***
The dinner happens on the fifth night.
Aleksandr tells me that morning, tone casual like he’s discussing the weather. “We’re hosting allies tonight. It’s a formal dinner; you’ll attend.”
Not a request. An expectation.
“What allies?” I ask.
“Families with shared interests. Business associates. People who need to see that the marriage is real and stable.”
“So I’m on display.”
“You’re my wife. Your presence is required.” He pauses, studying me. “Wear the blue dress. The one with the high neck.”
I want to argue. Want to refuse out of principle. What’s the point? He’ll just have someone dress me anyway, ensure I look exactly as he wants.
I nod.
Satisfaction flickers across his face. “Good. Dinner starts at eight. I’ll come for you at seven fifty.”
He’s exactly on time.
I’m ready—blue dress, hair styled simply, minimal jewelry except the wedding ring that’s becoming familiar weight on my finger. I look like the wife of a powerful man. Polished, expensive, controlled.
Aleksandr’s eyes darken when he sees me. His gaze travels slowly from my face down to my heels and back up, assessing, claiming.
“Perfect,” he says quietly. Then he extends his arm. “Let’s go.”
I take it because refusing would cause a scene before we even reach the dinner. His arm is solid under my hand, warm through the fabric of his suit. He leads me downstairs to the formal dining room I’ve glimpsed but never entered.
The space is magnificent. A long table is set for twelve, crystal and silver gleaming under chandelier light. Men in expensive suits and women in designer dresses already mingling, drinks in hand. Conversations pause when we enter.
All eyes turn to us. Tome.
Aleksandr’s hand settles at my waist, firm and possessive. “Everyone, this is my wife, Elena.”
The title still sounds foreign. But I smile, nod, play the role he’s assigned.
Introductions blur together. Names I won’t remember, faces that look at me with curiosity or assessment or thinly veiled judgment. These are Bratva families, I realize. Allied to Aleksandr but not quite friendly. Measuring whether I’m weakness or asset.
Throughout it all, Aleksandr’s hand never leaves my waist. He guides me subtly through the room, correcting my posture with gentle pressure, signaling where to stand, when to speak, how to position myself.
It should feel demeaning. Should make me furious.
Instead, it feels… grounding. Like an anchor in social waters I don’t know how to navigate.
We sit for dinner. Aleksandr pulls out my chair, waits until I’m seated before taking his own place at the head of the table. I’m positioned on his right, a place of honor, I guess, though it feels more like being kept close for monitoring.
The meal progresses through courses I barely taste. Conversation flows around me in Russian and English, business talk mixed with social pleasantries. I stay quiet, eating when appropriate, smiling when addressed directly.
Then a man across the table—older, gray-haired, cold eyes—makes a comment in Russian that I don’t fully catch.
