Page 28 of Under His Control
No clause about what happens if his business partners come calling. No line item about what to do if I get caught up in that other world of his.
Before I can bring it up, he leans back in his chair, folds his hands neatly on his lap, and as if reading my mind says, “You won’t be involved in any of the darker aspects of my work.”
I blink, surprised.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he adds. “But this marriage is not a front for anything criminal. I won’t involve you in anything that could put you at risk. Ever.”
His voice is so calm, so certain, that the tight knot in my chest finally loosens. I nod, absorbing the unexpected relief. “Okay. Thank you for saying that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replies.
Before I can formulate a response, the waiter reappears with practiced grace, gathering our empty plates. “Will you be having dessert this evening?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
Anatoly glances at the waiter. “Actually, we’ll have two slices of the chocolate hazelnut torte.”
I stiffen. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He meets my gaze head-on. “I know. But I won’t let you feel ashamed of something you enjoy—not with me.”
The slices soon arrive covered in a glossy ganache with a scattering of gold leaf. I slide the fork through the first bite, teeth sinking into silky richness. A small involuntary moan escapes.
“You approve?”
“Sinful,” I manage.
“Good.” He takes a bite of his own, licking a smear of chocolate from his thumb in a way that short-circuits half of my brain cells.
Halfway through, he signals the waiter. Two flutes of champagne appear, bubbles spiraling like tiny fireworks.
He plucks a pen from the inner pocket of his jacket then offers it balanced between his fingers. “Only if you want to.”
I study him. The lethal polish, the unexpected kindness, the threat coiled beneath refinement. Then I think of Chris, of the pain I feel whenever I imagine a funeral instead of a wedding.
I take the pen. My hand trembles, but my voice is steady. “For family.”
He lifts his glass. “For partnership.”
Champagne kisses my tongue, bright and thrilling.
I sign. He signs. Ink dries as futures are sealed.
I feel lighter, almost giddy, like I just chose something for me, not just for Chris.
Once we’re done, Anatoly insists on a stroll to “settle the decadence.” Outside, the desert evening is balmy, the neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip wash the sidewalk in pinks and blues. We walk shoulder to shoulder, arms brushing.
“Do you regret signing?” he asks quietly.
“Not at the moment. You?”
“I regret not ordering a second bottle of that wine.” His sidelong smile is devastating.
I laugh, feeling the champagne in my blood. “Tell me another secret.”
He considers. “I can play Rachmaninoff by heart.”
I stop, stunned. “You’re joking.”
