His eyes hold mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Because no matter how much you want to hate me, your body tells a different story every time I touch you."
Heat floods my cheeks because he's right, and we both know it. My pulse hammers visibly in my throat, my breathing has gone shallow, and I'm leaning into him despite every logical reason to maintain distance.
"I hate that you're right," I mutter.
"I know." His lips curve into a genuine smile this time.
The mansion makesNikolai's house look modest by comparison. I step out of the car and stare up at the sprawling estate, all white columns and manicured gardens that probably require a full-time staff to maintain. My security guard, a man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, positions himself at my elbow as we approach the entrance.
"I can walk by myself," I say, but he doesn't respond, just maintains that professional distance that makes it clear I'm not here by choice.
The foyer is all marble and crystal, a chandelier overhead that probably costs more than my entire business. A woman in her thirties with sleek black hair and a dress that screams designer greets me with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"You must be Aria. I'm Katya. Lara is waiting in the salon."
I follow her through hallways lined with artwork that belongs in museums, my simple navy dress feeling increasingly inadequate with each step. My guard trails behind us, a constant reminder of my status as prisoner rather than guest.
The salon is filled with women.
They turn as one when I enter, and I feel the weight of their collective assessment like a physical force. The wives range from women barely older than me to Lara's generation, all impeccably dressed in designer labels I recognize from magazines but could never afford. Diamonds glitter at throats and wrists, hair styled with professional precision, makeup applied with expert hands.
I'm acutely aware of my simple dress, my lack of jewelry beyond the small gold hoops that belonged to my mother, and my hair pulled back in a practical ponytail rather than an elaborate updo.
Lara rises from a cream-colored sofa, her emerald dress making her pale blue eyes even more striking. "Ladies, this is Aria Levin. Nikolai's…" She pauses meaningfully. "Companion."
The word hangs in the air like smoke. Not wife. Not girlfriend. Companion. A deliberately vague term that tells me exactly how precarious my position is in their eyes.
"Please, sit." Lara gestures to an empty chair positioned in the center of the room, and I realize with a sinking stomach that this is an interrogation disguised as a social gathering.
I lower myself into the chair, spine straight, chin lifted in defiance I don't entirely feel. My guard positions himself against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, and I hate that his presence is both reassuring and humiliating.
"Tell us about yourself, dear." An older woman with silver hair and kind eyes leans forward. "Where did you grow up?"
"Here. In the city." I keep my voice steady. "My mother died when I was seventeen. I raised my younger sister while working my way through culinary school."
"How resourceful." A blonde in her forties with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes studies me over the rim of her champagne flute. "And your business? Thyme and Tide?"
"I started it three years ago. Coastal-inspired cuisine, mostly private events and small gatherings."
"How quaint." The blonde's tone makes it clear she finds nothing quaint about it. "And exactly how did you meet Nikolai?"
Here it is. The question they're all dying to ask but have been dancing around. I meet her gaze directly, refusing to be intimidated. "I was hired to cater a party on his yacht. There was a storm. We were stranded on an island for three weeks."
Murmurs ripple through the room. Some of the women lean forward with genuine interest. Others exchange glances that speak volumes about their skepticism.
"How romantic." A woman in her twenties with auburn hair and a warm smile speaks up. "That must have been terrifying."
"It was." I allow myself a small smile. "But we survived."
"And now you're pregnant." The blonde again, her eyes dropping to my stomach with calculation that makes my skin crawl. "How convenient."
The implication hangs in the air like poison. I feel my hands curl into fists in my lap, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave marks.
"Convenient isn't the word I'd use," I say, keeping my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. "Unexpected, maybe. Complicated, definitely. But not convenient."
"Of course not." Lara's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "Aria didn't plan to be stranded on an island any more than Nikolai did. These things happen."
The blonde opens her mouth to respond, but Lara's raised eyebrow silences her more effectively than any words could. The room falls quiet, and I realize I've just witnessed a demonstration of the power Lara wields in this world. A single gesture, and a woman dripping in diamonds backs down without argument.
