Page 104 of Twisted Hearts

“And I’m afraid he actually might have what looks like a legal document concerning—”

“Bring him up, Rachel,” I growl quietly.

Fuck. Me.

This was going to happen sooner or later: Svetlana’s goddamn expert, here to go over and authenticate the fucking Imperial Shield. I’ve been stringing that miserable fucking cunt along for weeks, and she’s clearly gotten tired of it.

Or, she’s smarter than I’d like to give her credit for and is starting to doubt I even have it.

Which is a problem.

Because she’d beright.

But sending this fucking guy away outright just now will only give that hunch of hers more weight. If I can send him back to that witch with a pretty story, I can possibly drag this out a little longer.

Until Eilish says yes to my proposal.

I know I could find almost literally any woman with a pulse to do this for me. Taylor Crown already has the contracts, watertight NDAs, and crystal clear prenup all drawn up.

But I don’t want any woman with a pulse. I want Eilish. Even if it’s a fake marriage that is just a means to an end.

And I’m not quite sure how to deal with that.

There’s a knock at my door.

“Enter.”

The door swings open. Rachel comes in first, biting her lip and almost, dare I say it, blushing as she clears her throat.

“Uh, Mr. Petrov, sir.”

The appraiser steps in next, and my brows shoot up.

Okay, not what I expected.

When I heard “expert antiques appraiser”, I imagined one of the fucking goblins from that bank in Harry Potter, or a hunched old man in tweed smelling like mothballs.

The man who walks in is neither of those. Tall, with an obviously muscular build, and a strong, sharp jawline.

Heiswearing tweed, though.

“Ahh, Mr. Tsarenko!”

The appraiser beams widely at me as he crosses the room to shake my hand eagerly. His voice is heavily accented—Belarusian, unless my ears are rustier than I think. I keep my face neutral and my mouth a straight line as I firmly shake his hand back.

“I will not insult you and ask if this is a good time,” he chuckles. “I know you are, how do you say, busy-busy! No time is good time, yes?”

I frown. “Look, Mr. Petrov—”

“Please, call me Stanislav. All my friends do.”

He turns to wink at a blushing Rachel.Blushing.

“That’ll be all, Rachel,” I growl. She nods quickly and slips out of the room, closing the door behind her. When Stanislav turns back to me, he grins.

“I am not what you are expecting.”

I incline my head. “Not exactly.”

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