Page 37 of Sweet Obsession
He showed me the room I’d stay in.
North Wing. East-facing.
Sunlight cut across the stone walls, catching on the polished wood of the furniture. The bed was enormous. Covered in velvet. Too rich. Too suffocating.
“And you, what room are you staying in?” I asked, arms crossed.
“South Wing.” He didn’t elaborate. Of course not.
He’d brought me here, broken me open, and now he wanted distance? Coward.
I stepped closer, my voice lower. Meaner.
“Is this where you lock away all your little acquisitions? Or just the ones who still hate you?”
His gaze dropped, slow and heavy, to my mouth. He didn’t speak.
My pulse skittered.
He reached past me, fingers brushing mine as he opened the wardrobe.
“Your size,” he murmured. “I had them brought in.”
I swallowed. “You had my size?” I echoed, stunned.
He looked at me then, full and unflinching. “I’ve always known your size.”
His voice didn’t waver.
Not just because he’d watched me. Because he’d studied me. Prepared for this. Like he’d been waiting.
My breath caught, and not from fear. From the cold certainty that I hadn’t just been stolen. I’d been hunted.
Heat washed through me, shameful and uninvited.
His hand brushed mine again as he stepped back.
This time I didn’t move away. Neither did he.
We stood there, inches apart. Breath shallow. Hearts stubborn.
Misha leaned in slightly. “You’ll be safe,” he murmured. “As long as you don’t run.”
My spine stiffened, but I met his gaze without flinching.
“So,” I said, forcing a bitter smile, “we’re playing happy husband and wife in public, but strangers under the same roof?”
He looked at me, “Not strangers,” he said quietly. “Allies. Temporary allies.”
He led me to a smaller sitting room—though “small” was relative. It was still larger than my old bedroom back in Bogotá. He gestured for me to sit. I didn’t.
He didn’t press. Just reached into his coat and pulled out a slim leather folder, letting it fall onto the table between us with a quiet thud.
“Your terms,” he said.
My fingers were colder than they should’ve been when I opened it.
Twelve months. That was the first line. Twelve months of fake marriage. Twelve months of pretending to be in love, at every Bratva meeting, every public appearance, every staged moment necessary to solidify his power.
