Page 20 of His Forced Bride
We plan.
We execute.
We survive.
Dominic died because he was careless, because he trusted the wrong people and made himself a target.
I won't make the same mistake.
Every decision from now on will be calculated, every move designed to strengthen our position.
Including my marriage to Inessa Mirova.
She thinks she hates me now, but hatred can be transformed into other things with the right application of pressure and patience.
I've seen her fire, the way she burns beneath that cool exterior.
When I touched her outside her studio with those flashing lights surrounding us, she didn't pull away immediately.
For one brief moment, she leaned into the contact before catching herself.
Thursday morning, Inessa Mirova will become my wife.
She'll stand beside me and speak the words that bind her to me legally and permanently.
And once the ceremony is complete, once the documents are signed and filed, I'll begin the slow, careful process of making her understand that her hatred is wasted energy.
She could learn to crave my touch instead.
5
INESSA
Morning comes whether I want it to or not, and I force myself to dress and go into the studio to finish up a few things before I take a few days off to grieve.
Everything appears exactly as I left it yesterday—the mannequins draped in my latest designs, the fabric samples arranged by color and texture, the sketch boards propped against the walls displaying next season's collection.
But the familiarity feels wrong now, hollow.
The space that once pulsed with creative energy now feels mausoleum-quiet.
I push through the glass doors, and the soft chime that usually welcomes me sounds mournful today.
My employees look up from their workstations with expressions I've never seen before—a mixture of sympathy, curiosity, and fear.
Word travels fast, especially when blood is spilled in broad daylight.
They know about Batya and Dominic.
They know their jobs depend on a twenty-three-year-old woman whose world imploded twelve hours ago.
"Good morning, Inessa." Marina, my head seamstress, approaches carefully.
Her usually bright smile is subdued, her eyes red-rimmed. "We're so sorry about your father."
The condolences feel necessary but painful.
Each one reminds me that Batya will never walk through these doors again.
