Page 2 of Arranged with Twins
His mouth quirks at the corner. It’s not quite a smile, but it is an acknowledgment of some connection we have. “Indeed, we did.”
He’s still holding my hand, and I’m acutely aware of the cameras positioned around the room, and the way conversations have shifted to accommodate our little table. This is the shot they want of the handsome billionaire and the society daughter, picture-perfect and ready for tomorrow’s headlines.
I catalog details. His jacket fits snugly across broad shoulders. It’s not too small. On the contrary, it’s a product of precise, bespoke tailoring. There’s a slight scar above his left eyebrow that wasn’t there when we were children. He also smells like expensive cologne layered over something more fundamental.
Masculine.
Sexy, even?
Definitely sexy. Regrettably so.
Mother, always trying to be in control, gestures toward the waiting cameras. “Perhaps we should let the photographers capture this moment. The announcement has everyone so excited.”
Leo releases my hand while stepping closer rather than away. “Of course. I’d prefer a few moments of private conversation first, if Sienna doesn’t mind.”
It’s phrased as a request, while his tone makes it clear my preferences are secondary to his plans. He and my parents have that in common. Father nods eagerly, already moving to usher Mother toward the crowd of waiting reporters and society columnists.
Father calls over his shoulder, “Take all the time you need. We’ll be right here.”
Right here meaning thirty feet away and completely absorbed in managing the media narrative. I’m alone with Leo Denisov for the first time since childhood, and the silence stretches between us like a live wire.
His observation cuts straight to the heart of things. “You don’t seem thrilled about this arrangement.”
Why bother denying it? “Should I be? Most women dream of being traded like baseball cards, I’m sure.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re very direct, and I appreciate that. It’ll make this easier.”
I quirk a brow. “What exactly will it make easier?”
“Understanding each other. Your father owes me a considerable debt that’s not financial but personal. This marriage settles that debt while providing both our families with certain advantages.” He pauses, studying my reaction. “I assume he’s explained the benefits to you?”
The clinical way he discusses our impending marriage makes my jaw clench. “He’s explained that his business needs stabilizing and apparently, I’m the solution.”
Leo glances toward where my parents are holding court with reporters, then back to me. “Among other things. I won’t pretend this is a love match, Sienna. I will promise you’ll be protected, provided for, and treated with respect. That’s more than many marriages in our world offer.”
Our world. He speaks like we share something beyond this forced alliance. Like I chose to inhabit the same shadowy spaces where handshake agreements and family debts carry the force oflaw. “What do you get out of this bargain?” I keep my voice level despite the anger building inside me.
He watches my face, studying my reaction. “Legitimacy, stability, and a wife who understands the requirements of public life. Your family has an impeccable reputation despite your father’s recent difficulties. Marriage to you signals the Denisov name has arrived in acceptable society. It also helps that you’re pretty.”
I snort softly. “How romantic.”
Surprisingly, he gives me a tiny smile. “Romance isn’t really what I’m after. The bedroom can be warm without it.”
Before I can respond to that cryptic statement, a commotion near the bar draws both our attention. A man in an expensive yet poorly fitted suit has cornered one of the waitresses, his hand resting far too familiarly on her lower back as she tries to step away with a tray of glasses.
Leo’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring. Something intense crosses his expression that reminds me exactly why people fear him. He doesn’t move toward the situation immediately. Instead, his attention returns to me. “Excuse me for a moment. There’s something that needs my attention.”
He starts toward the bar with a brisk step.
I follow, partly from curiosity and partly because the alternative is standing alone in the middle of a room full of people who see me as either a business opportunity or entertainment. The crowd naturally creates space for Leo’s approach, and I slip in behind him just as he reaches the bar.
Leo’s voice cuts through the ambient conversation without rising in volume. “Mr. Hamilton, I don’t believe you’ve met my fiancée.”
The man, Hamilton, turns with a politician’s practiced smile that falters when he sees Leo’s expression. He drops his hand from the waitress’s back immediately. His voice carries the slightly slurred cadence of someone who’s been sampling the premium bar too liberally. “Denisov? Wonderful party. Just wonderful. Congratulations on the engagement. Lucky man.”
Leo steps closer, effectively boxing Hamilton between the bar and his own considerable presence. “I noticed you seemed to be having an interesting conversation with our server here.”
The waitress, a young woman with dark curls and intelligent eyes, shoots Leo a grateful look before slipping away with her tray. Hamilton’s face reddens slightly. “Just being friendly. No harm in a little conversation.”
