Page 32 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Handle it,” I say, signing a document without reading it properly. “Tell Pavel I want a full accounting by Friday.”

“The Colombo intel?”

“File it. We’ll revisit after the meeting tomorrow.”

Yuri nods and slips out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

She tested me. A small, deliberate move—poisoned breakfast disguised as wifely devotion. It was amateurish, almost childish, but the intent behind it was razor-sharp. She wanted to see how I’d react. She wanted to map the boundaries.

Interesting.

Most people in my orbit don’t test me. They avert their eyes and scurry away. Freya does none of those things. She charges directly at the flame, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it could consume her.

Or perhaps not oblivious. I think Freya knows exactly what she’s doing.

I find myself smiling at the thought. It’s not a pleasant smile.

Checking my watch, I see it’s nearly noon. Time to set the next move in motion.

Rising from my desk, I walk to the secondary office—the one I keep for less sensitive matters. It’s positioned near the main living area, accessible but controlled. A workspace that offers just enough visibility to feel like trust, without actually granting any.

I pull out my phone and send a single text. My office. Now.

Three minutes later, the door opens.

Freya steps inside, her posture defensive. She’s changed out of the leggings into dark jeans and a cream sweater that softens her features. Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, exposing the line of her neck.

She looks younger like this. “You wanted me?” she asks, her tone carefully neutral.

“Sit.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk.

She doesn’t obey immediately. Instead, she takes a moment to survey the room: cataloging exits, noting the window placement, assessing the space with tactical precision.

Smart girl.

Finally, she crosses to the chair and sinks into it, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“I have a meeting tomorrow evening,” I begin, leaning back against the edge of my desk. “With Viktor Petrov and his associates. They’re interested in a joint venture regarding the new shipping terminal in Red Hook.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, clearly waiting for the catch.

“You’ll be attending with me.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Why?”

“It’s expected. A man of my position doesn’t attend social functions alone. Especially not a newly married man.” I pause, letting the implication settle. “Your presence lends stability. It suggests I’m settled. Not prone to erratic behavior.”

“You want me to be a prop,” she says flatly.

“I want you to be an asset.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Props are disposable. Assets are valuable.”

She absorbs this, her jaw tightening slightly. “What exactly am I supposed to do at this meeting?”

“Smile. Nod. Look beautiful on my arm. Don’t speak unless spoken to. And if Petrov’s wife tries to corner you about wedding details, be vague but enthusiastic.”