Page 9 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Ms. Clarke.” His voice is deep, with the faintest trace of an accent I can’t place. “We meet again.”

I step back, breaking his hold on my arms. “Are you following me?”

“I was waiting for you.”

The honesty throws me off balance. “Why?”

“I’d like to speak with you.” He glances around at the students streaming past us. “Privately.”

Every instinct tells me to walk away because this man is dangerous. I sensed it the moment I first saw him. There’s something predatory in the way he moves, in the way people give him a wide berth without even realizing they’re doing it. “I have class,” I lie.

“No, you don’t. Your next lecture isn’t until tomorrow morning.”

My blood runs cold. “How do you know my schedule?”

He doesn’t answer as he gestures toward a quieter area near the courtyard. “Five minutes of your time, Ms. Clarke. That’s all I ask.”

I should say no. I should walk away. I should call campus security.

Instead, I follow him, curiosity overriding common sense. We stop beneath a large oak tree, away from the flow of students. “What do you want?” I cross my arms over my chest.

He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I understand you’re in a difficult financial situation.”

My cheeks burn with humiliation. “That’s none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business.” He steps closer. “You need money. I need a wife. Let’s talk.”

I blink, certain I’ve misheard him. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a straightforward proposition.” Damir’s voice is cool and measured, like he’s discussing the weather instead of something completely outrageous. “You require funds to complete your education. I require a wife for... personal reasons.”

A startled laugh escapes me, high-pitched and nervous. I look around to see if anyone else is hearing this absurdity. “You’re insane.”

His expression doesn’t change. Not a flicker of emotion crosses his face. His gaze remains fixed on mine, calculating and serious. “It’s a simple transaction,” he continues, as if explaining something obvious. “You marry me, and I pay your tuition. After a suitable period… say, six months… we divorce, and you continue your life with your medical degree.”

I yank my arm free from his light grip and step back, nearly stumbling over an exposed tree root. “You’re insane,” I repeat, because my brain can’t seem to formulate any other response to this madness.

“I’m practical.” He doesn’t move closer, but somehow his presence still feels like it’s crowding me. “You need approximately twenty thousand dollars immediately, plus living expenses for the six months of your schooling. I need a wife who won’t complicate my life with emotional entanglements.”

The way he says it makes my pulse quicken, not with attraction, but with something closer to fear. This man knows exactly how much money I need. He’s researched me, tracked me down, andnow he’s proposing marriage? “If you keep bothering me, I’ll call the police.” My threat sounds hollow even to my own ears.

His lips curve slightly, like I’m a child who’s said something amusing. The almost-smile never reaches his eyes. “And tell them what? That a man offered to help you financially?” He gestures between us with one hand. “No laws have been broken. No threats made.”

“That a stranger is stalking me and proposing a sham marriage.”

“I’m not a stranger. We were formally introduced this morning. I’m Damir Antonov, a friend of Anton Mikhailov.”

“I don’t care who you are.” I grab my bag tighter. “Stay away from me.”

I turn and walk away, forcing myself not to run despite the trembling in my hands. I don’t look back, but I can feel his gaze on me until I turn the corner.

“He’s unhinged,”I mutter, pacing the small living room of our apartment. “He just showed up, offering marriage like it was a damn job contract.”

Liv sits cross-legged on our secondhand couch, her dark curls piled on top of her head, eyes wide as she listens. She’s still wearing her scrubs from her ICU shift and has a blood stain on the right knee.

“Back up,” she says, holding up her hands. “Start from the beginning. This is the same guy from the café? The one who knew your name?”

I nod, dropping onto the couch beside her. “And the same one who was in Anton’s room this morning. He’s some kind of business associate of Anton’s.”

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