Page 19 of 10 Days to Ruin

“You were afraid I’d ruin you instead.”

7

ARIEL

I used to have this recurring nightmare as a kid. In it, I’m standing at the edge of the roof of our brownstone in Brighton Beach, toes curled over the lip of the building. Ahead of me lies only empty space and a four-story drop to the concrete below. Behind me, something dark and hungry is slinking closer.

Jump or be devoured.Those are my options.

Story of my life, really. But standing here in this glistening ballroom with Sasha’s words still burning in my ears, I finally understand what those nightmares were trying to tell me: sometimes, the monster behind you and the abyss in front of you are the exact same thing.

I ought to be scared—scratch that, fucking terrified—and to be sure, part of me is. I can feel that fear coiled up and quivering in my belly, an old, familiar terror that’s never quite gone away.

But another part of me isangry.

I didn’t spend twenty years scrubbing “Makris” off my skin like a stubborn wine stain just to let my father swap me for two cows and a fucking goat.

But therein lies the problem with men like Leander—they don’t ask. They don’t negotiate. They don’t even have the decency to send a“Hey, thinking of pimping you out to a Russian warlord. Thoughts?”text. No, they just drop the bomb, light the fuse, and walk away whistling like they’ve done you a favor.

Case in point: the smug son of a bitch is already halfway across the ballroom, schmoozing with a senator whose hair plugs I could see from outer space. Meanwhile, I’m left standing here with his “gift”—a six-foot-two slab of Bratva monster who looks like he’s two seconds away from either kissing me or slitting my throat.

Maybe both.

You weren’t afraid I’d kill you. You were afraid I’d ruin you instead.

I snort, mostly to myself, and hustle off the dance floor. “This isn’t happening.”

Sasha arches a brow. “It quite literally is.”

“No, see, ‘literally’ implies reality. And this?” I gesture wildly between us, from my borrowed dress to his oxblood leather shoes. “This is a network TV plotline. It’s bad fan fiction. The kind where the writers ran out of ideas and started huffing glue.”

“Reality is not quite as buttoned-up as yourtelenovelas,” he says with a dark chuckle. He crowds me close against a marble pillar as the other dancers go swirling past us, casting curious glances in our direction.

I plant a palm on his chest. “Back. Up. Unless you want my knee to make intimate friends with your groin.”

His lips twitch. “Promises, promises.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He catches my wrist, thumb skating over my racing pulse. “But by all means, scream. Cause a scene. Let your dear old dad explain to his esteemed guests why his long-lost daughter is assaulting his business partner in the middle of?—”

“Shut up.”

“I dare you to try and make me.”

God, I want to. I want to claw that infuriating smirk off his face. I want to scream until the chandeliers shatter. But mostly, I want to run—far away from this gaudy, gilded nightmare. Back to my shitty Bushwick apartment with its IKEA furniture and persistent mold problem. Back to a life where my biggest worry was whether Sportswriter Steve would notice I swapped his oat milk for half-and-half.

Instead, I do what I’ve always done best: bluff.

“This marriage isn’t happening,” I say, chin lifted. “I don’t care what deal you and Leander made. I’m not a bargaining chip.”

Sasha tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he’s decided to solve out of boredom. “You think this is about you?”

“I think your ego’s too big to share a room with my father’s, so yes, this is absolutely about?—”

“The only outsized ego here is yours, if you think that I give a single fuck about you or what you want,” he snarls.

My mouth drops.

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