Page 21 of Mafia King's Bride

“You should go change,” Freya says, completely oblivious to my seething anger. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

Oh, they’re going to get something alright. But it’s not going to be what they expect.

Still in my office clothes, tired and annoyed, I storm through the front entrance. If Dmitri wants to make me play hostess, he’s about to regret that decision. I’ll show these guests exactly who I am—no fancy dress, no smiles, no playing the obedient wife.

But instead of finding a crowd in the living room, I run straight intomy husband.

“What’s going on?” I snap, barely keeping my voice level. “Why did you invite people without telling me? I come home to strangers ogling me like I’m some prized possession.”

His expression is infuriatingly calm. “Does it matter?” he says, shrugging. “All you need to do is go upstairs, put on one of your pretty dresses, and play hostess.”

“Hostess? What am I, your trophy wife?”

His face hardens, and his next words cut deep. “Why do you think I married you? You’re here to make me look better, Anastasia Orlov. You’ll play your part, or we’ll have a problem.”

I snicker, unable to believe his audacity. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Janet took one of your dresses so we could give your measurements to a personal shopper. There are a few choices in your bedroom. You’ll find something appropriate.”

“I’m not going to wear a stupid gown,” I hiss, the anger rising in my chest.

He simply shrugs again, already walking away. “We’ll see about that.”

I stand there, mouth agape, watching him disappear further into the house. His arrogance is so overwhelming that, for a moment, I’m stunned into silence. But then, a dangerous idea starts to form. If he wants me to play the part, I’ll play it.

But I’ll playmyway.

In my room, I find the gowns laid out on the bed, each one more beautiful than the last. One dress, in particular, catches my eye—a deep emerald green with a beaded bodice and a silken skirt that falls like liquid around the waist. It’s exquisite, and I can’t help but imagine the scene I’ll create in it.

I slip it on, and it fits like a glove, molding to my every curve. As much as I hate to admit it, the dress is perfect. I could almost feel like royalty if I didn’t loathe the man who arranged this whole charade.

But why play modest? Dmitri didn’t specify what kind of hostess he wanted, so I’ll be the kind he never saw coming.

With matching heels and a string of pearls, I make my way downstairs. As I approach the garden where the party is in full swing, I hear the hum of voices, laughter, and clinking glasses. The whole setup is extravagant—Dmitri spared no expense.

“Mrs. Orlov,” a man greets me as I step into the crowd. “You look stunning this evening.”

I smile sweetly, letting the compliment wash over me. “Thank you.”

Another man steps closer, his gaze immediately dropping to the neckline of my dress. “I didn’t think Dmitri could do any better than marrying Nikolai Petrov’s daughter. I was right.”

I chuckle, covering my mouth just enough to let him think I’m modest. “Oh, you’re exaggerating. It’s just the dress.”

His eyes linger a little too long on my cleavage, exactly as I expected. The dress emphasizes my curves just enough to leave little to the imagination. I may not seek attention, but tonight, I’m going to make sure I get plenty of it.

There are more people here than I imagined, some of them familiar faces from my father’s world, others complete strangers. And yet, they’re all here, smiling, mingling. I wonder how many of them are here because of me. Because I’mhiswife, the shiny new accessory.

If they came for a show, I think darkly,then I’ll give them one.

Lifting my chin, I stride through the crowd, eyes following me, some with open admiration, others with envy. A man in a blue suit approaches, his importance evident in the way he carries himself.

“Mrs. Orlov,” he says, taking my hand and pressing his lips to it. “I’m Igor Pavlov. A close friend of Dmitri’s.”

Freya’s husband,I recall, remembering her earlier introduction. He oozes fake charm, just like the others.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pavlov. Are you enjoying your evening?”

“Igor,” he corrects, his eyes straying to my cleavage, lingering too long. “Please, call me Igor.”

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