“Fine,” I mutter. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Five,” he says, already turning away. “Actually, four now.”
I shut the door hard enough to make the frame shake, then lean against it, breathing fast, trying to pull myself together while every nerve in my body feels stretched tight, buzzing under my skin. For a moment I just stand there, staring at nothing, then I push off the door and hurry to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face until the sting clears the fog from my head. I pull my hair into a messy bun, grab the first pair of jeans that still feel clean, and tug on a sweater that smells faintly of fabric softener.
When I finally step outside, he’s still there, the bastard, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand, like he’s been waiting for me all morning instead of the few minutes it actually took.
He looks up. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
I glare at him. “You woke me up at dawn. Be grateful I’m not in pajamas.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he doesn’t argue. He just walks past me toward the elevator. “Let’s go.”
As we step outside, I see a car waiting in front of the building. Not just any car—the kind that looks like it belongs to someone important, all black and polished so clean it catches the morning light. A driver steps forward and opens the door for me, and for a second I just stand there, not sure if I should get in.
Inside, it smells like leather and something faintly expensive. Artyom’s already seated, one hand resting on his knee, the other scrolling through his phone like he’s checking stocks or running a country. I sit beside him, cross my arms, and watch the city slide past the window.
“So,” I say after a minute, “where are we going exactly?”
“Shopping.”
I blink. “You woke me up at six in the morning to go shopping?”
He doesn’t look up. “You’ll need new clothes, shoes, jewelry, perfume, a proper coat.”
“I have clothes. And no shops work this early.”
“You have uniforms.” He finally looks at me then, eyes cool, assessing. “You’ll thank me later.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
He almost smiles, but it never quite reaches his eyes.
The city rolls by in streaks of gray and gold, and for a while it’s just the sound of tires on asphalt. Then, without looking up from his phone, he says, “You should start packing tonight. We leave in three days.”
I glance over. “Leave for what?”
“Sicily.” His tone is casual, as if he’s talking about a grocery run. “I told you the night you agreed to do this. There’s a gathering. Old alliances, family business.”
“I didn’t know you meant so soon,” My stomach knots. “You’re serious. In three days?”
“Completely.” He slips the phone into his pocket and finally looks at me. “They’ll expect to meet my fiancée.”
The word hits like a bad echo. I look out the window, watching the buildings blur. “So I’m just… coming along to play dress-up while you talk business? How am I supposed to justify that to my boss?”
“Pack light. You won’t need anything you can’t wear to dinner,” he says.
“Dinner with who?”
He doesn’t answer, just gives me that calm, unreadable look that says I’m better off not knowing.
I sink back against the seat, fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve. Sicily. I’ve barely been out of the state, and now I’m supposed to step into his world and make everyone believe I belong there. I picture the kind of people he deals with, dressed in sharp suits and colder smiles, and feel my pulse spike.
“How the hell am I supposed to pull that off?” I mutter.
“You’ll manage,” he says without looking at me.
“Yeah?” I glance at him. “Because pretending to be your fiancée in front of a bunch of criminals sounds like a skill I definitely do not have.”
