Page 82 of Brutal Promise

“The don wants to gift it to you. You should know better than to argue with him.”

“Do you argue with him?”

“Occasionally, it’s more about picking your battles. And, even then, we’re the only ones who can make our men bend with our words. Their subordinates wouldn’t dare question them.”

“I get that, but this rushed wedding feels fake. I don’t want to lie to everyone,” I explain.

“Isabella, you’re lucky to have a bratva man. He will protect you with his life if need be. And don’t try to convince me that you don’t love him. Even I can tell you’re thinking about him. Plus, you’ve been texting him updates all afternoon. So, I don’t think you’re being honest with yourself.”

She’s right. I can’t deny that I have feelings for Dmitry. My body yearns for him, and that’s not all. My heart soars when he enters a room. I get wet when he looks at me, and I believe him when he says I’m his. He’s destroyed the possibility of any other man replacing him.

“Ah, I see it in your face.” Anya accuses me of having emotions for this ruthless man. “You can’t hide the flush in your cheeks and the way your eyes light up at the mention of his name.” Her eyes widen, as does her grin. “You love him,” she says softly.

“Um.” I’m at a loss for words. I thought it was just the porn star sex we’re having that has me obsessed with him. The possibility of him loving me makes me giddy. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah, you may as well admit it. You’re no good at lying, Izzy. Not to a woman who knows what love is with her husband. Does Dmitry know?”

“Oh, no,” I reply, reaching for a wedding dress to try on.

“Well, good. Make him say it first.”

“What if he never does?”

“Trust me, when a bratva man loves a woman, he practically brands her, and God help any man who looks at her a moment longer than necessary.”

“Oh, yeah, I can see that. He’s definitely all that,” I murmur.

I strip down to my panties and try on the dress that grabs my attention. It’s a mermaid gown of Chantilly lace handmade in France. I step into the dress and pull it up. My heart beats faster. The plunging neckline and fitted bodice push up my boobs and display my cleavage beautifully. The tight satin sash slims my waist. I twist to see the fishtail train. The deep V-back sexes it up. This is my dress.

Anya is waiting when I come out of the dressing room.

“I love it. Turn around,” she says.

“Please, grab the phone out of my purse and video it. I have to send it to my girlfriend in New York.”

Anya finds my phone and records me twirling in the dress.

“I love this dress,” she exclaims. “It’s incredible. The fit is perfect.”

“I think so too.”

“I’m told you are quite the fashion designer. I’m sure you would have taken the job with the ballet company if it wasn’t for this sordid affair.”

My mouth drops.

“What?” My voice is barely audible.

“Oh, you would never have been able to take that job anyway.” She adjusts the train and takes more photos from different angles.

“You’re talented. I’d never believe in a million years they’d pass you over. But their loss is our gain. I’d love for you to design a clothing line for us.”

It’s becoming painfully clear that when Dmitry is quiet, it’s because he’s withholding something. How dare he take away the job I wanted. The fun day that was going so well is now tarnished, and there isn’t enough polish in the world to fix it.

“When did you hear this?”

“It was before you left New York. I don’t know how that didn’t cause a row, but I guess it’s in the past.” She puts my phone in my purse.

I storm off to the dressing room.

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