Page 49 of Mafia King's Bride

Instead, a smartly dressed woman with a perfectly cut bob and designer sunglasses strides in. She’s wearing a tailored blazer paired with a boho-chic skirt—an outfit that would look ridiculous on me but somehow works for her.

She smiles and extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Andrea. Mr. Orlov sent me. You’re Mrs. Anastasia Orlov, right?”

I blink, connecting the dots.The stylist. Of course. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

“Great,” she says, all business. “It’s past noon, so I was thinking now’s the perfect time to go shopping.”

Shopping. Right. For dinner.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” I say, motioning to my desk full of paperwork. “Maybe in a couple of hours?”

Andrea shakes her head with the air of someone who’s had this conversation too many times. “I understand, but we’re not shopping for just any dinner. Mr. Orlov is taking you to a six-star establishment. You don’t just throw on any old dress for something like that. I have the expertise, but we needtime.”

Six-star? Is that even a thing? Isn’t five stars the top? I’m clearly out of my league here, and Andrea knows it.

“I might get fired if I leave now,” I mumble, glancing at the pile of work on my desk. But honestly? Why am I even fighting this?

She waves her hand like my job is a minor inconvenience. “Mr. Orlov has already taken care of that. You’re free to leave when you want.”

I blink at her. Of course he did. Why would my actual job matter when he’s decided I need a makeover?

“And people will talk,” I add, grasping at straws. “If I keep leaving early, they’ll say I’m slacking off.”

Andrea leans in, dead serious. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then why should you care?”

Unfortunately, she has a point.

Instead of goingfor a classic red dress, Andrea insisted on sage green, a color I’d never have thought of but now realize was an inspired choice. The dress is understated but elegant, hugging my body like a glove with a fitted satin bodice that flares from the knee down. It’s almost off-shoulder, exposing just enough skin to feel both sophisticated and daring. The silver jewelry—a simple necklace and delicate half-drop earrings—completes the look without competing for attention. My hair isstyled in an artfully messy updo, something I’d never manage on my own, and I have to admit, I look nice. Maybe even more than nice.

“You’re beautiful, Mrs. Orlov,” Andrea had said as the car pulled up to take me to the dinner. “Beauty like yours turns heads.”

I laughed it off, trying to dismiss the compliment. I don’t usually think of myself as the kind of woman who turns heads, more like someone who blends into the background unless I’m actively trying not to.

But as I step into the restaurant’s grand entrance, I’m reminded that this is no ordinary dinner. The place is stunning, with soaring ceilings, soft lighting, and live music drifting through the air. Everything about it screams opulence, like I’ve walked straight into a 1920s movie set. A smartly dressed host greets me with a polished smile.

“I’m meeting Mr. Orlov,” I say, trying to sound like I belong here, even though I’m not quite sure I do.

“Of course, right this way,” he replies, leading me deeper into the elegant space. Every detail—from the gleaming chandeliers to the rich tapestries—makes me feel like I’ve been transported to another world. A world where sage green gowns are appropriate, and Dmitri Orlov is waiting for me.

When I spot him, my breath catches. He’s standing by the table, impossibly handsome in a dark tailored suit. His hair is slicked back, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at me, dark and intense, like he’s seeing right through me.

He stands as I approach, extending his hand with a small smile. “Mrs. Orlov.”

“Mr. Orlov,” I respond, taking his hand. Though my heart’s racing, I feel more like a teenager at her first prom than a grown woman. I’m trying to play it cool, but I hear myself blurting, “Iwouldn’t have missed this for the end of the world.” Great, now I sound overenthusiastic.

Dmitri just nods, his expression unreadable as always. He pulls out my chair with a quiet efficiency that feels more business than personal. “Please sit. I assume you’re hungry.”

I nod, sitting down and placing my bag on my lap, trying not to fidget. I’m hyper-aware of how fancy this place is, how out of my element I feel, and how Dmitri is both so close and so distant at the same time. The silence stretches on until my curiosity gets the better of me.

“I mean, I appreciate this. The flowers were nice. But...why?” I ask, unable to help myself.

He shrugs, his answer as cool as ever. “You’re my wife. No other reason.”

“Huh.” I try not to let the disappointment show, but I feel it settling in my chest. His answer is so mechanical, like he’s ticking off a box. I study his face, trying to read him, but it’s impossible. The Dmitri I know is all walls and armor, and tonight, even though we’re not fighting, I still can’t tell what he’s thinking.

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