Chapter Seven - Chloe
The bathroom lighting is harsh, exposing every detail of the ridiculous costume I’ve put together. I lean closer to the mirror, squinting through the distorted glass of the oversized granny-style frames perched on my nose.
They’re so thick, I can barely see, but that’s the point. Everything about this disguise is over the top.
My reflection stares back, unrecognizable and, honestly, kind of tragic. My hair is a tangle of deliberate chaos—half up, half down, teased within an inch of its life. The hint of a unibrow, meticulously penciled in, draws my gaze every time I try to focus on something else.
I tug at the beige sweater swallowing my frame like a potato sack and cringe. It’s shapeless and itchy, hanging off my shoulders in a way that screams, “I’ve given up on life.” Paired with the offensively bright yellow floral skirt, the outfit clashes so violently that it’s almost painful to look at.
I chew on my lip, second-guessing myself. Maybe this is too much. It’s supposed to be distracting, not horrifying. My reflection doesn’t offer any reassurance.
A deep breath steadies my nerves. I remind myself why I’m doing this. If I show up as me—Chloe Hart, polished and perfectly presentable—there’s no way I’ll get the honesty I need. People only let their guards down when they think no one’s looking.
Tonight, I am invisible. Or at least I hope to be.
I push the bathroom door open and step into the restaurant. The low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses fill the air, but the sound seems to fade as I walk toward my table. Heads turn, and not in a flattering way.
Eyes linger on my mismatched outfit, my unkempt hair, my absurd glasses. A couple seated near the bar exchange a glance and stifle a laugh.
My cheeks burn, the heat creeping up my neck. I force myself to keep walking, my chin slightly lifted in defiance. If they’re staring, then the disguise is working. It’s supposed to draw attention away from me and onto the character I’ve created. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Then I see him. My new fiancé.
He’s seated at a corner table, a glass of dark amber liquid resting untouched before him. His suit fits like it was designed solely to worship the sharp planes of his body—sleek, black, and utterly commanding. Even in the dim lighting, he radiates authority. The angles of his face are illuminated in sharp relief, and his piercing blue eyes scan the room with a detached kind of interest.
Then those eyes land on me.
I falter mid-step, the weight of his gaze almost physical. It’s assessing, cool, and completely unyielding. I try to remind myself that this is just a meeting. He doesn’t know me. He can’t possibly see through the layers of this absurd disguise.
Still, something in the way his eyes narrow sends a ripple of unease through me.
The table grows closer with every step, his commanding presence making the space around him feel suffocating. I’ve met men like him before—powerful, confident, impossible to rattle.
There’s something about Erik Sharov that sets him apart, a calculated precision in the way he moves, sits, even breathes. He owns this moment entirely, and I haven’t even sat down yet.
Ignoring the burn of nerves creeping up my spine, I plaster on what I hope is a confident smile and slide into the chair across from him. The scratchy sweater clings awkwardly as I settle into my seat, and the too-thick lenses of my glasses momentarily throw his face out of focus.
“So,” I begin, my tone laced with feigned indifference. “Let’s get this over wi—”
My words die on my lips.
Through the distorted glass, his features sharpen into clarity, and the room tilts. Recognition slams into me like a punch to the gut. It’s him. The man from the auction.
The memory rushes back in vivid detail: the crowded auction house, the antique dagger gleaming under the spotlight, my heart racing as the bids climbed higher and higher. I’d been so close to winning—until he swooped in at the last second, his smug, self-assured smirk making me want to hurl the nearest object at his head.
My stomach twists. Of all the people in the world, why him ?
Erik’s head tilts slightly, a flicker of something—amusement or recognition?—passing through his expression. His lips curve into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, but his gaze remains razor-sharp, pinning me to my seat like a butterfly on display.
“Miss Hart,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, tinged with the faintest Russian accent. “You’re late.”
The arrogance in his tone grates, but I refuse to flinch. “Traffic,” I reply curtly, hoping the single word hides the tremor threatening to creep into my voice.
He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he takes a slow sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving mine. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until I’m convinced he can hear the frantic pounding of my heart.
I lean back, crossing my arms in an attempt to appear unaffected. “So,” I say, forcing my voice to steady. “Are we going to discuss what you want, or did you just invite me here to gloat?”
His smile widens, a dangerous edge creeping into it. “What I want, Miss Hart, is simple. Your cooperation.”
My stomach knots, but I refuse to let him see the crack in my armor. “What makes you think I’d cooperate with someone like you?”
Erik leans forward slightly, his hands steepled on the table. The movement is subtle, but it’s enough to pull me into his orbit, his presence as magnetic as it is unnerving.
“Because,” he says, his voice soft yet utterly unyielding, “you have no choice.”
The words hang in the air, chilling in their finality.
I force myself to hold his gaze, refusing to shrink under the weight of his authority. The man who had smugly outbid me, stolen the dagger I’d spent months tracking down, is now sitting across from me, acting as though I’m the one at a disadvantage.
To my frustration, he might be right.
The smile that spreads across Erik’s face is slow and deliberate, as if he’s already won some unspoken game I don’t even know we’re playing. I swallow hard, forcing down the flutter of nerves. There’s no way he knows who I am. This disguise is foolproof—or at least passable enough to keep him at arm’s length.
“Very creative,” he drawls, his blue eyes scanning me from head to toe. His gaze lingers on my glasses, the unibrow, and finally, the potato sack of a sweater swallowing my figure.
My cheeks heat again, this time with annoyance. “Excuse me?” I snap, my voice pitching higher than I’d like.
He tilts his head, studying me with a look that makes me feel as though he’s dissecting me piece by piece. “The glasses. The hair. The….” His lips curve as his hand gestures vaguely at my outfit. “It’s quite the effort, I’ll give you that. You’re not fooling anyone.”
My stomach twists painfully, but I force a laugh, hoping it sounds convincing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” His voice is like silk, dangerous and smooth. He leans back in his chair, radiating smug satisfaction.
I roll my eyes, leaning forward with more confidence than I feel. “Look, let’s just cut to the chase. I don’t want to marry you.”
His brow lifts ever so slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I take his silence as an opportunity to press my point. “This whole arranged marriage thing? It’s archaic, and frankly, it’s not going to work. So why don’t you just call it off? I’m sure someone like you can do that.”
The words tumble out in a rush, and I realize I’ve practically pleaded by the end of my sentence. My heart sinks at the realization, but I cling to the hope that he’ll take the bait. Men like Erik Sharov thrive on control. Surely, being tethered to someone as ridiculous as me isn’t in his plans.
For a moment, he simply stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then he exhales, slow and measured, as if weighing his response.
“Our wedding,” he says finally, his voice calm, almost amused, “which was due in a year, is cancelled.”
Relief surges through me so quickly, I almost sag in my chair. “Seriously?” The word comes out breathless, and I barely resist the urge to pump my fist in the air. “Great! I mean, that’s… great!”
I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face, a giddy sense of freedom swelling in my chest. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel like I can breathe.
Then I look at him.
His expression hasn’t softened. In fact, there’s a hard edge to his smirk now, one that sends a chill down my spine. He leans forward, closing the space between us until I can feel the heat radiating off him.
“Not a year,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low rumble.
My heart stutters.
His eyes lock on to mine, unflinching and relentless, as if daring me to look away. “I’m making you mine this month.”
The words hit me like a slap, my relief evaporating in an instant. “You—you can’t be serious,” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper.
He chuckles, a deep, rich sound that vibrates through the air between us. “Oh, I’m very serious, Chloe.”
The way he says my name, slow and deliberate, sends a shiver down my spine. I open my mouth to argue, but no words come out.
“You thought this little act would change anything?” he continues, gesturing at my outfit with a flick of his fingers. “That I’d look at you, decide you’re too… unappealing, and call it off?”
My silence betrays me.
His smirk deepens. “I have news for you, sweetheart. I don’t make decisions based on appearances. And I don’t cancel agreements.”
My chest tightens, panic clawing at the edges of my composure. “This is insane,” I manage, my voice breaking slightly. “You can’t just decide to move up a wedding without my consent.”
“Consent?” He leans back, his gaze never wavering. “Your father agreed to this, and you’re his responsibility. Until you’re mine.”
The casual way he says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, makes my stomach churn.
“I’m not a piece of property,” I snap, my voice rising.
“No,” he agrees smoothly, his expression unflinching. “You’re a responsibility. One I’m taking off your father’s hands.”
The words hang heavy between us, and I can feel the walls closing in. My hands clench into fists beneath the table, my nails biting into my palms. “Why?” I demand, the word bursting out of me. “Why are you even doing this? What’s in it for you?”
His gaze sharpens, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “That,” he says softly, “is none of your concern.”
His calm, measured tone only fuels my frustration. “You don’t even know me!” I spit. “This is ridiculous! Why would you want to marry someone like me?”
His smile is slow and deliberate, and when he speaks, his voice is cold and calculated. “Who says I want to marry you?”
The words hit like a punch, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to respond. My breath catches in my throat, and I hate the way my heart aches, even though I know this isn’t real. This isn’t about me.
“You’ll understand soon enough,” he adds, rising from his chair with a grace that belies his size. “Prepare yourself, Miss Hart. This month, everything changes.”
“You can’t just walk away!” I call after him, my voice sharper and louder than I intend. Heads turn in our direction, diners pausing mid-conversation to watch the commotion. My cheeks flush, but I don’t care. He doesn’t get to drop a bomb like that and leave.
Erik pauses mid-step, his back to me. For a brief moment, I think I’ve gotten through to him. Then he turns, his movements deliberate, his piercing blue eyes locking on to mine.
“I can do whatever I want,” he says smoothly, his voice low enough that only I can hear. Somehow, that makes it worse.
My heart pounds in frustration as I push myself out of the chair, closing the distance between us. “No, you can’t,” I hiss, keeping my voice quiet even though I want to scream. “You think you can just dictate my life? Make decisions for me like I’m some kind of… of chess piece?”
His brow lifts, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” My voice pitches higher, and a few nearby diners glance over again. I ignore them. “You’re the one who just announced you’re moving up our wedding like it’s a business meeting you’re rescheduling!”
He doesn’t respond immediately, letting my words hang in the air. Then, with infuriating calm, he says, “It is a business arrangement, Chloe. Nothing more.”
“Then cancel it,” I snap. “If it’s just business, then you can walk away.”
He tilts his head slightly, considering me with a look that makes me feel both exposed and dismissed. “I don’t walk away from agreements.”
His calm demeanor only stokes my anger. “This isn’t an agreement. It’s coercion! You and my father might think you can control my life, but I won’t let you—”
“Enough.”
The single word is soft, but it carries the weight of finality. It cuts through my rant, silencing me as effectively as a shout would. His expression doesn’t change—cool, composed, utterly in control—but there’s a steeliness in his gaze that sends a chill down my spine.
“Sit down, Chloe,” he says quietly.
“No,” I say, planting my feet. “I’m not—”
“I wasn’t asking.”
The silence that follows feels deafening, the weight of his words pressing down on me. My hands curl into fists, my nails biting into my palms, but I don’t move.
He takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You can fight me all you want, cause a scene, throw a tantrum. It won’t change anything.”
I glare at him, my chest heaving with anger. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”
He chuckles softly, the sound infuriatingly amused. “I’ve been called worse.”
I want to scream, to wipe that smug look off his face, but he’s already turning away, his attention seemingly elsewhere.
“You didn’t even order anything,” I blurt, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
He pauses again, glancing over his shoulder. “I didn’t need to, we’re done here.”
With that, he strides out of the restaurant, leaving me standing there, my chest tight and my mind racing. I feel every set of eyes in the room on me, the weight of their curiosity and judgment pressing down like a heavy blanket. My throat tightens, and the anger that had been burning so brightly fizzles into something far worse: humiliation.
I sink back into my chair, staring at the table in front of me. The untouched glass of water sits there, mocking me. He didn’t even stay long enough to order.
A quiet laugh escapes my lips, bitter and self-deprecating. What did I expect? That I’d show up in this ridiculous disguise, deliver some scathing speech, and he’d just… what? Call the whole thing off?
I push the glass away, the distorted reflection of my unibrow catching my eye. The urge to crawl under the table and disappear is overwhelming, but I settle for grabbing my bag and heading to the bathroom instead.
The dim light in the bathroom feels harsher now, and my reflection is no less absurd than it was earlier. I yank the glasses off, tossing them onto the counter with more force than necessary. The unibrow is next, wiped away with a tissue until my skin feels raw.
I untangle my hair from the mess I’d teased it into, watching as it falls around my shoulders in limp waves. My sweater follows, discarded in favor of the fitted black tank top I’d hidden underneath. It’s not much, but it’s enough to remind me that this —the girl in the mirror now—is who I am.
My breathing slows as I stare at my reflection. The anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it’s laced with something else. Resignation.
I press my palms against the counter, leaning forward until my forehead nearly touches the mirror. “Get it together, Chloe,” I whisper.
When I step out of the bathroom, the dining area feels even more stifling than before. I ignore the curious glances, keeping my head high as I make my way toward the exit.
Outside, the cool night air bites at my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the restaurant. I wrap my arms around myself, the events of the night replaying in my mind.
Erik Sharov is a problem—a powerful, infuriating, impossible problem. No matter how much I hate it, I’m stuck.
For now.
Chapter Eight - Erik
The mirror reflects a version of myself I’ve grown accustomed to: sharp, controlled, untouchable. The suit is flawless, tailored to perfection by one of the finest artisans Moscow has to offer. It fits me like a second skin, each detail meticulously crafted, but my thoughts are elsewhere. On her.
The tailor fusses at my sleeve, muttering about an adjustment that feels irrelevant. “Hold still, Mr. Sharov,” he says, his tone polite but firm.
I comply, more out of habit than care for the task at hand. My gaze remains locked on the reflection, though I’m not looking at myself. I’m seeing her . Chloe Hart.
The realization had been unexpected. One moment, I was reviewing the terms of this arrangement, skimming through the mundane details of another business alliance disguised as a marriage contract. The next, her name caught my eye. Chloe Hart. The woman from the auction.
The memories surface with startling clarity. Her determined expression, the way her hazel eyes had sparked with defiance as she raised her bid higher and higher, refusing to back down. She’d been relentless, fierce in a way that intrigued me more than I’d care to admit. She wasn’t like the other women in that room, all perfectly polished and eager to please. Chloe had something different—a fire.
Now, she’s mine.
The thought sends a ripple of satisfaction through me, though I keep my expression neutral. Fate is an unpredictable force, but when it aligns with my goals, I’m not one to question it.
The tailor steps back, nodding to himself. “Nearly done,” he says, reaching for the hem of my jacket.
The door opens behind me, and Semyon strides in. “I hope this interruption is worth it,” he says, his voice laced with dry humor. “It’s not every day I see you voluntarily playing dress-up.”
I glance at him through the mirror, my lips curving into a faint smirk. “What do you think, Semyon? Am I wedding-ready?”
He chuckles, leaning against the wall with the casual ease of someone who’s known me far too long. “I’d say you look the part, though I doubt your fiancée cares much about suits.”
“She doesn’t care about much when it comes to me,” I reply, adjusting the cuff of my sleeve. My voice is steady, betraying none of the thoughts running through my mind. “Not yet, anyway.”
Semyon raises an eyebrow. “You’ve met her already?”
“We’ve crossed paths.”
His curiosity sharpens, and he straightens slightly. “And?”
“And,” I say, letting the word hang in the air as I smooth down the lapel of my jacket, “she’s… unexpected.”
The admission surprises even me, but it’s the truth. Chloe is nothing like the women I’ve encountered in my world. There’s a rawness to her, a refusal to conform that makes her both infuriating and captivating.
Semyon folds his arms, a knowing glint in his eye. “Unexpected, huh? That’s not a word I hear from you often.”
I shoot him a pointed look, but he doesn’t back down.
“Go on,” he prompts. “What’s so special about this girl?”
I consider his question, the image of her from the auction flashing in my mind. “She’s stubborn,” I say finally. “Bold. She doesn’t back down, even when it’s in her best interest to do so.”
Semyon whistles low, clearly entertained. “Sounds like trouble.”
“She is,” I admit, my smirk returning. “I’ve always liked a challenge.”
The tailor clears his throat, stepping back to admire his work. “Perfect,” he declares, his voice tinged with pride. “As always.”
I turn slightly, inspecting the fit in the mirror. It’s impeccable, of course, but my mind is already shifting back to more pressing matters. “Leave us,” I tell the tailor.
He nods, gathering his tools quickly and slipping out of the room without a word.
As the door clicks shut, Semyon pushes off the wall, his expression growing more serious. “So what’s the plan?”
“The plan,” I say, adjusting the collar of my shirt, “is simple. This marriage will go ahead, and she will be my wife.”
Semyon studies me, his brows knitting together. “I can’t imagine she’s too happy about that.”
I laugh softly, the sound devoid of humor. “She thinks she can avoid it. That she has a choice.”
“She doesn’t?”
“No,” I say firmly, meeting his gaze. “This isn’t just about her or me. It’s about the alliances this marriage secures, the leverage it provides. Her father agreed to this for a reason, and I intend to honor that agreement.”
Semyon’s mouth quirks into a half smile. “Honor. Right.”
I ignore his jab, my thoughts returning to Chloe. She might think she can outmaneuver me, but she’ll learn soon enough. Every move she makes only brings her closer to where I want her to be.
“What happens if she fights you on this?” Semyon asks, a note of caution in his tone.
“She’s already fighting,” I reply, my smirk widening. “She just doesn’t realize she’s losing.”
Semyon shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about my “questionable taste in women.”
“Careful, Semyon,” I warn, my voice light but laced with an edge. “I’ve already decided she’s mine.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Understood. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when this blows up in your face.”
“It won’t.” My tone leaves no room for doubt. “She’s mine, Semyon. Whether she likes it or not.”
The words linger in the room, heavy and absolute.
Semyon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I always do,” I say simply, turning back to the mirror.
The man staring back at me is ready—ready to claim what’s his, to ensure that Chloe Hart understands exactly who holds the power in this arrangement.
I adjust my cuff links, their weight familiar and grounding, as I meet Semyon’s gaze in the mirror. His expression is a mix of curiosity and disbelief, arms crossed over his chest like he’s bracing himself for what I’ll say next.
“You seem unusually committed to this,” he says, his tone carefully neutral. “Last I checked, you weren’t exactly enthusiastic about this whole arrangement. You even considered pushing back against Dominik to avoid it.”
“That was before,” I reply, letting the words hang in the air as I focus on straightening my tie.
“Before what?”
“Before I realized who she was.”
Semyon arches an eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to elaborate. When I don’t, he sighs and leans against the edge of the table, his patience thinning. “You’re not planning to make me guess, are you? Who is she?”
I glance at him through the mirror, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “The girl from the auction.”
His brow furrows in confusion for half a second before recognition dawns. “Wait. You mean her ? The one who went toe-to-toe with you over that dagger?”
“The same.”
Semyon lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “You’re telling me your reluctant bride-to-be is the woman who spent half the night trying to outbid you just to get under your skin?”
“Not just under my skin.” I turn to face him, my hands in my pockets. “She got my attention; now I understand why.”
Semyon gives a short laugh, though there’s an edge to it. “So what, you’re suddenly head over heels because she made you work for something? That’s a hell of a shift, considering you were ready to risk Dominik’s wrath to get out of this marriage.”
I shrug, my expression calm. “I don’t believe in fate, Semyon. I believe in control, in shaping the world to fit my needs. That’s more than coincidence. It’s… alignment.”
“Alignment,” he repeats, disbelief dripping from the word. “You sound like a man who’s already decided this is more than a business deal.”
“It is more than a business deal,” I admit, my tone firm. “I’ve already picked out her dress.”
Semyon blinks at me, caught off guard. “You’ve what?”
“I picked out her wedding dress,” I repeat, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “A classic silhouette, elegant and understated. It’ll suit her.”
He stares at me, dumbfounded. “You’ve met her twice. Briefly. You think you know her well enough to pick out her dress?”
“I don’t think,” I say evenly, holding his gaze. “I know . I remember every detail, Semyon. Her height, her build, the way she moved. The dress will fit perfectly, and the rest can be tailored on the day, if necessary.”
He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re something else, Erik. You’re acting like she’s already yours, and she hasn’t even agreed to this yet.”
“She doesn’t need to agree.” My voice drops slightly, a harder edge creeping into it. “This was decided the moment her father signed the contract. Chloe Hart is mine, whether she likes it or not.”
Semyon studies me for a long moment, his usual air of detached amusement giving way to something more thoughtful. “You’re serious about this.”
“I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t.”
“You’re not just going along with Dominik’s orders anymore. You actually want this.”
“She isn’t some nameless pawn in this game,” I say, my tone sharpening. “She’s her . That changes everything.”
Semyon exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll give you this—you’ve got a way of committing once you’ve made up your mind.”
“It’s not just about commitment,” I reply, my voice softening slightly. “It’s about ensuring that she understands where she belongs. With me.”
Semyon snorts, crossing his arms again. “You’re playing a dangerous game, you know. Women like her don’t take kindly to being told what to do.”
“Good,” I reply, my tone laced with amusement. “I don’t want someone who’s easy to control. I want her fire, her resistance. It’ll make her eventual surrender all the sweeter.”
“You’re a damn romantic,” Semyon mutters, though there’s a trace of humor in his voice.
I laugh softly, returning to the mirror to inspect the final adjustments to my suit. The man staring back at me is ready—not just for the ceremony, but for the challenge that Chloe Hart represents.
“This isn’t about romance, Semyon,” I say, adjusting the lapel of my jacket. “It’s about what’s mine. I always get what’s mine.”
Semyon shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Well, good luck. Sounds like you’re going to need it.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” I reply smoothly, turning away from the mirror.
As I step out of the fitting room, a single thought dominates my mind. Chloe might think she can defy me, that she can outmaneuver me. She doesn’t realize one simple truth: she was mine from the moment we met.
I don’t lose.