Page 68 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

What a bunch of bullshit.

In truth, it’s all merely a façade, a mockery that I don’t think Esme will appreciate.

I don’t know what has led me to tell herthisway, but a part of me wants to parcel out the bad news by wrapping it in nice things.

As if I give a fuck what she thinks about all of it. About any of it.

As if her opinion matters in the slightest.

“Fancy meal for a prisoner,” says a voice from behind me.

I turn, more startled than I’d like to admit.

And I almost suck in my breath at the sight of her.

Esme looks like a mirage. An ethereal fairytale come to life.

The pale silver dress I picked out for her clings to her graceful curves. She’s kept her hair loose and it falls over her bare shoulders with careless ease.

She looks cautious as she steps out into the balcony, but by the time she settles into her seat, she has her features carefully composed once more.

Her eyebrows rise before she turns her gaze to me. “All this for me? You shouldn’t have.”

I don’t miss the sarcasm, but I choose to ignore it for now.

The erection that was driving me insane when I got dressed hasn’t gone away. In fact, it’s gotten noticeably worse.

“I like my guests to be comfortable,” I reply from where I’m standing.

She scoffs. “Now I’m a guest? That’s news to me. I don’t usually sedate my guests on their way over.”

I cross the open balcony and settle into the chair opposite of Esme.

“Call yourself what you want. It makes no difference to me. It doesn’t change what happens next, either.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “What happens next?”

I grin wickedly. “Dinner.”

She rolls her eyes and turns her attention to the floral centerpiece at the middle of the table. It’s a bouquet of pale roses with sharp thorns on the stems.

I should’ve had them removed. They send the wrong message.

I’m not trying to seduce the woman—I’m trying to break her.

Though, sometimes, there’s a fine line between the two.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Ravenous.”

I smile and raise a hand. Almost instantly, two waiters in crisp suits appear with our first course. They set down two steaming bowls of lobster bisque in front of each of us and a basket of freshly baked focaccia.

“Lobster bisque with cognac marshmallow and a brandy reduction,” one of the servers informs us.

Then the other one picks up the bottle of champagne and prepares to pour it in the waiting glasses.

Suddenly, I raise my hand to stop him. I don’t know why, but I have a strong urge to avoid alcohol.

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