Page 36 of 10 Days to Ruin

Patience, Sasha. Patience.

I hold the door and guide her inside. The maître d’ practically trips over himself at the sight of us. “Mr. Ozerov! We’ve been expecting you. Your usual table is right this?—”

“We’ll take the corner booth,” Ariel interrupts.

Both the maître d’ and I freeze. I turn first, but when I look at her, Ariel just smiles in the same easy, pleasant way she did when she first emerged from the car.

My gaze shifts to the maître d’. His face is pale and stricken. He knows as well as I do: No one contradicts me in my own kingdom. This is my territory, my empire in miniature, where everyone from the sommelier to the busboys understands exactly who holds the power.

Everyone but my date, it seems.

Her smile takes on a sharper edge, dripping saccharine poison. “Unless you’d prefer to stare at the scaly little lobsters in the fish tank all night long, darling?”

I nod once, teeth grinding. So be it. Let her have this small rebellion.

It’ll make breaking her that much sweeter.

I give the man a slight nod and we’re quickly shepherded in a different direction. The serving team hustles to transplant a crystal bucket over to this new table. It cradles a bottle of Krug champagne, beads of condensation rolling down its neck like tears.

“With the compliments of the chef,” the maître d’ murmurs, bowing so low I half-expect his nose to scrape the floor. “Please enjoy your evening.”

I help Ariel to her seat, watching her sink into the velvet cushions like she belongs there. Like a queen ascending her throne.

Myqueen—whether she likes it or not.

Her lips twist into that perfect smile again. “Who said chivalry is dead?”

“Not dead. Just unpopular nowadays.” I settle into my own side of the booth, adjusting my tie. Her eyes track the movement carefully before she drags her glance away.

“Can’t say I disagree. The last guy I dated took me to Chick-Fil-A.”

The casual mention of another man touching what’s now mine makes violence surge through my veins. I want to find this worthless piece of shit and explain exactly why that was a mistake. Preferably with my fists.

Patience, Sasha. Patience.

Instead, I grit my teeth in what could generously be called a smile. “I’m sure they can find a chicken to fry if the food here isn’t to your liking.”

Something hot and defiant flashes in her eyes—there you are, little spitfire—before that perfect mask slides back into place.

The server approaches with a respectful nod. “Sir, madam, it is a pleasure to have you joining us this evening. May I?—”

“Five of those.”

Ariel again. It’s not that she’s barking orders—on the contrary, her voice is so sweet and feminine and fuckingprincess perfectthat it’s a miracle I can even find it in me to be offended.

But something about the way she keeps lunging in just when I expect her to sit back and be waited upon pricks my irritation.

The server is every bit as taken aback as I am. “I’m sorry—five of what precisely, madam?”

“Those.” She points a manicured nail rather rudely at the next table over. The couple there are both in evening attire that would’ve been “old school” a century ago. They must be pushing ninety years old at least. They blink at her in slow confusion.

“Five… osetra caviar portions?” the server struggles to clarify.

“Is there a problem with that?” she asks.

He shakes his head in a hurry, glancing over at me. “No, no. Of course not. I will be back momentarily with that.” He’s gone in a flash, leaving me to look at my date and wonder just what exactly is going through her brain.

“I intended to order for us,” I rumble.

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