Page 27 of Under His Control
We sip the wine—earthy, dark berries—liquid confidence. I decide to push. “Tell me something personal. Favorite childhood memory?”
“That’s your question?”
“Consider it due diligence.”
He leans back in his chair. “Playing chess with my father in the hotel lobby after midnight. He’d let me stay up if I could last twenty moves.” A flicker of fondness, and perhaps grief, shadows his face before the mask resets. “Your turn.”
“Hmm.” I tap the base of my glass. “Sneaking into my mom’s kitchen at dawn to eat frosting straight from the can before school. She never caught me.”
His eyes warm perceptibly. “Sugar thief.”
“I prefer frosting ninja.” I tilt my head. “Ever been in love?”
A beat of silence. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “That’s enough questions.”
I grin because the response is so like him. Efficient. Terse. Direct. “That’s it? You’ve reached your conversational quota?”
His mouth twitches. “You said you wanted to talk. We talked.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “You know, you were a lot flirtier in your office. All smirks and low-voiced temptation. But here? You’re practically an IRS agent.”
He lifts a brow. “Would you prefer I flirt over legally binding contracts?”
Before I can answer, the waiter returns with two plates—one with a delicate burrata with heirloom tomatoes and basil oil, the other with a trio of seared scallops on a smear of saffron risotto.
I blink. “I don’t remember ordering these.”
“You didn’t,” Anatoly says. “I took care of it.”
I arch a brow. “Thank you, but I do like having a little say in what I put in my mouth.”
“Noted,” he replies without missing a beat. “Next time, you’ll choose.”
There’s something about the way he says it—calm, assured, final—that makes me think there will definitely be a next time.
And I might actually want there to be.
He takes a sip of wine, then sets his glass down and draws a slim folder from his inner jacket pocket. The shift is smooth and seamless, like he’s flipping from one version of himself to another.
“The essentials haven’t changed,” he says, placing the folder in front of me. “One-year union. Public cohesion. Full access to the penthouse and all its amenities. A personal account will be opened for you tomorrow, funded in full.”
Business, once again. No pretense now.
And yet, even as I open the folder and scan the pages, I can feel the weight of his attention. Watching. Waiting. Like this means more to him than he’s willing to admit.
“What about conjugal rights?” I tease.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. “Optional. Desire must be mutual, or it’s worthless to me.”
My cheeks flush. Optional isn’t the same as unlikely—especially not with the way he’s looking at me, like he’s already imagined a hundred ways this marriage could veer out of the business lane and into something physical.
The next hour flies by in a blur of structured conversation and perfectly timed wine refills. The appetizer plates are taken away, soon replaced with the main course—a delicious pan-seared duck that practically melts in my mouth.
He walks me through the terms with precision. There will be scheduled public appearances—charity galas, a foundation dinner next month, holiday events. He emphasizes discretion, loyalty, and the expectation of a partnership. Not romance. Not affection. Just mutual benefit and support for twelve months.
I ask questions and he answers without hesitation, never talking down to me, never rushing. It’s all so professional. Yet I can’t help but notice what hedoesn’tmention.
There’s nothing in the contract about the Bratva, nor has he brought it up.
