“You’ve smiled more in the last hour than you did in the entire first month of this marriage.”
I don’t have a good counter-argument. “It’s complicated,” I say instead.
“Love usually is.” Diana sits back, studying me. “Just… be careful. Men like him don’t love the way normal people do.”
“I know.”
“Do you? You look like someone who’s forgotten why you were angry in the first place.”
The observation lands uncomfortably close to truth. I have forgotten, or at least stopped caring about the reasons I should hate Dimitri Rudenko.
Revenge feels like someone else’s motivation. The exposé, the firing, the forced marriage—all of it has faded into background noise against the reality of who we are now.
Maybe that makes me weak. Maybe it makes me complicit in my own captivity.
I don’t care anymore.
We part ways outside the café. Diana hugs me longer than usual, and I wonder if she senses something I don’t. Some approaching storm that will test exactly how solid this foundation we’ve built actually is.
The thought dissipates when my phone buzzes.
Dinner tonight. Somewhere public. I want to show off my wife. - D
I smile at the screen, type back:Possessive much?
Always. 7 PM. Wear something that will make every man in the restaurant jealous.
***
The restaurant is exactly the kind of place Dimitri would choose—expensive, exclusive, the sort of establishment where reservations book months in advance and the dress code is enforced with polite ruthlessness.
I wear midnight blue silk that clings to every curve, hair swept up to expose my neck and the diamond necklace Dimitri gave me last week. No occasion. Just because he could.
His eyes heat when he sees me step out of the car.
“You’re trying to start a war,” he murmurs, hand settling possessively at my waist as we enter.
“You asked for jealousy.”
“I’m regretting that now.”
The maître d’ leads us to a corner table with perfect sight lines—Dimitri never sits with his back to a room. Old habits from a life I’m only beginning to understand the full scope of.
Dinner is perfect. The food, the wine, the easy conversation that flows between us now that we’ve stopped fighting every interaction. Dimitri tells me about the Williamsburg project moving forward, asks my opinion on community outreach strategies I’ve been developing.
He listens when I talk. Actually listens, incorporating my suggestions, treating my insights as valuable rather than decorative.
It’s intoxicating.
I’m mid-sentence, explaining why the neighborhood council needs more direct engagement, when Dimitri’s expression changes.
The shift is subtle—a slight tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes track movement behind me with predatory focus.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing. Keep talking.”
His hand has moved to his waist, where I know he keeps a gun in a holster I’m not supposed to acknowledge exists.
