Aside from Aiden's heart attack rush to the ER, this was the hottest sight of my life.
Fresh from the shower, his dark curls damp and slicked back perfectly, showing off that chiseled profile. White shirt hugged him, back muscles flexing under the fabric as he moved.
He was fastening cufflinks.
He looked untouchable, elite—like the drunk, wild guy growling Russian in my ear last night was a dream.
But seeing him filled that hollow in my chest with something soft and warm.
He'd called himself my husband.
The thought exploded in my head like pink fireworks.
Sure, it was a messed-up accident, and he only married me to placate Olga.
But last night.
It wasn't just sex, at least not for me. His breath in my ear, the way he held me tight, even his frantic need at the end—it screamed obsessionwith my body.
Even Kirill Orlov wouldn't get hard for a woman who repulsed him, right? If he hated me, no way.
Lame logic, I knew. Rihanna would jab my forehead, call me pathetic for using that to prove he didn't despise me.
But it was a start, yeah?
I sucked in a breath, steadying the dream-come-true jitters.
But unease crept up, too.
He thought I married for cash. Partly true—without Aiden's surgery money, no signature.
How to spill the real feelings now?
I was terrified. Admit it, and he'd laugh. A girl who took his money claiming love? Sounded like a con artist's excuse.
But if I wanted honesty, this was prime time.
My eyes hit the nightstand.
My old bag sat there. Tucked in the pocket, that pink card.
Do it now, Harper, or you might never get a better shot.
I gritted my teeth, wrapped the sheet, and slid off the bed despite the aches. No embarrassing groans—he might get turned off.
I grabbed the bag, fingers shaking as I pulled the envelope.
"Um... Kirill?"
He paused, turned.
"Awake?" His voice rumbled, that magnetic pull making me melt.
"Yeah." I nodded, face heating. "Morning."
"Morning." He adjusted his tie, casual.
I swallowed, stepped closer. My toes curled into the carpet awkwardly.
