Arrow

6. Six

SIX

HARLOWE

The fucker left me standing there, fury bubbling through my veins like acid. I wanted to run after him, grab the closest heavy object, and smash his skull in. But something told me that’s exactly what he wanted—to provoke me into acting like a child so he could punish me like one.

I took a deep breath, my hands shaking. The food in my stomach churned, threatening to come back up. I wasn’t used to eating after days of starvation, and my body was rebelling against the sudden nourishment.

Frank appeared in the doorway. “He’s waiting.”

“I know,” I said, swallowing bile. “Let’s just get this over with.”

His face was a mask. He’d spent decades perfecting that look—a blankness that revealed nothing and everything at once. I used to think it meant he cared. Now I wondered if it was just pity.

“He’s not like the others,” he said quietly.

“Spare me the Stockholm syndrome speech,” I snapped. “He’s exactly like the others.”

I grabbed my purse, checking that my phone was inside.

Not that it would help me escape. Arrow probably already had a tracker on it.

I shrugged past Frank, refusing to let him see how shaken I was.

That was the worst part of all this. Not just Arrow’s arrogance or my father’s betrayal, but how Frank watched it all happen with that same stoic expression.

As if my life being traded away was just another Tuesday.

The polished black car waited outside, engine purring. Arrow stood beside it, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread for “Sociopaths Monthly.”

I approached with my chin high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower.

“Good choice,” he said, opening the door for me like we were on some fucked-up date.

“Don’t mistake compliance for surrender,” I said, sliding into the seat.

The leather was cool against my bare legs. I’d wished I’d worn something less revealing. The dress Arrow had picked clung to places I didn’t want him noticing.

He got in beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that reminded me of leather and smoke. I pressed myself against the door, creating as much distance as possible.

“Where are we really going?” I asked as the car pulled away from my father’s house. “Because if you think I’m picking out wedding rings with you, you’re delusional.”

Arrow smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. “Cartier. Fifth Avenue. They’re expecting us.”

“Nothing says ‘true love’ like overpriced jewelry picked out at gunpoint,” I muttered.

His mouth twitched in amusement. “No one’s holding a gun to your head, Harlowe.”

“Only a metaphorical one,” I said, staring out the window as Manhattan blurred past. The city looked different today, sharper somehow, as if my impending doom had given everything a new edge.

We rode in silence for several blocks. I felt him watching me, though—studying me like I was some rare specimen under glass. It made my skin crawl.

“You know, most women would be thrilled to marry into the Romanov family.”

I turned to him, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Most women haven’t had their brother returned to them in pieces.”

Something flickered across his face—not guilt, Arrow Romanov didn’t seem capable of that—but something close to recognition.

“That was . . . unfortunate,” he said, as if discussing a delayed flight rather than my brother’s mutilation.

“Unfortunate?” I spat the word back at him. “Is that what you call it when you nail someone’s hands to a cross? When you cut out their tongue, slit their throat, and wrap them in barbed wire? Unfortunate?”

He looked at me, his expression unchanged. “I didn’t kill your brother.”

“Your family did—your blood. Your name.”

His eyes held mine, unflinching. “My uncle’s men killed your brother. I was seventeen.”

“And that absolves you?” I leaned forward, close enough to see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes.

The car slowed as we approached Cartier, its iconic storefront gleaming even under the overcast sky. My stomach twisted into knots. This was really happening. Soon, I’d be Mrs. Arrow Romanov. The thought made me physically ill.

“I don’t want to do this,” I whispered, hating how vulnerable I sounded.

Something almost human crossed his face. Not sympathy, exactly. More like . . . understanding.

“We rarely get what we want in this world,” he said. “We get what we’re given.”

The car stopped. Arrow adjusted his cuffs—a gesture I was beginning to recognize as his version of a nervous tic, though I doubted he’d ever admit to such human weakness.

“We’ll be quick,” he said. “Choose whatever you like. Price is irrelevant.”

“How generous.” I rolled my eyes. “Buying me off with blood diamonds.”

His hand closed around my wrist as I reached for the door handle, his grip firm but not painful. “One more thing,” he said, voice low enough that the driver couldn’t hear. “In public, we present a united front. Save your hatred for when we’re alone.”

I wrenched my arm away. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass the Romanov Prince.”

The Cartier store had been cleared for our visit. A nervous-looking manager greeted us at the door, bowing slightly as Arrow guided me inside with his hand hovering at the small of my back—not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my dress.

“Mr. Romanov, Miss Virelli,” the manager said, his smile too bright to be genuine. “We’re honored to have you. Please, follow me.”

He led us to a private room in the back, where velvet trays of rings glittered under carefully positioned lights. Champagne waited in an ice bucket, two flutes already poured. Arrow pulled out my chair, the perfect gentleman, and I sat stiffly, refusing to touch the champagne.

“I’ve selected some pieces based on your preferences, Mr. Romanov,” the manager said, gesturing to the display.

Of course, the smug bastard had preferences.

“Show us the platinum bands,” Arrow instructed, taking the seat beside me. His thigh brushed against mine, and I shifted away immediately, my skin burning even through the fabric of my dress.

“I don’t want platinum,” I said, just to be contrary.

Arrow’s eyes flicked to mine. “No?”

“No.” I leaned forward, scanning the trays until I found the most ostentatious, gaudy option—a rose-gold monstrosity encrusted with pink diamonds. “I want that one.”

The manager’s smile faltered as he looked to Arrow for guidance. Arrow’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the only sign that I’d managed to irritate him.

“An unusual choice,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps something more timeless?”

“You said I could choose whatever I liked,” I reminded him, sweetness dripping from my voice like poison. “Price is irrelevant, remember?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Of course. Let’s see it.”

The manager hurried to retrieve the ring and placed it on a separate velvet cushion before me.

I slipped it on my finger, holding my hand up to the light.

It was hideous, too large for my thin fingers, and exactly what I wanted.

A daily reminder to Arrow that I would never conform to his aesthetic or his control.

“Perfect,” I declared. “Don’t you think it suits me?”

He studied me, his gaze moving from the garish ring to my face.

Then he did something unexpected: he smiled—a real smile that transformed his face and sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

I’d seen him cold, calculating, even angry, but this expression was different.

It held something almost like admiration.

“It’s perfect,” he agreed, taking my hand in his. His touch was warm, his fingers calloused in places I wouldn’t have expected from a man who wore suits worth more than most people’s monthly rent. “Exactly what I would expect from you.”

I tried to pull my hand away, but he held firm, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gesture that felt too intimate.

“And for you?” the manager asked, clearly relieved that a potential confrontation had been avoided.

Arrow released my hand and pointed to a simple platinum band. “That one.”

The contrast couldn’t have been more stark—my gaudy monstrosity against his understated elegance. Me fighting with every weapon at my disposal while he remained unmoved by my rebellion. It was a perfect metaphor for what this marriage would be.

“Shall we size them?” the manager asked.

“Yes,” Arrow said before I could object. “And we’ll need the engraving as discussed.”

I stiffened. “What engraving?”

His eyes met mine, that same almost-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises,” I said flatly.

“I know.” He turned back to the manager. “We’ll take them today.”

The manager nodded eagerly. “Of course, Mr. Romanov.” He gestured to an assistant. “If you’ll come with me for the sizing, Miss Virelli.”

I shot Arrow a venomous look before following the assistant to a small table. She measured my finger with a metal loop, jotting down the size.

“And what message will you have engraved in his ring?” she asked, smiling like this was all perfectly normal.

I blinked. “I get to choose?”

She nodded. “Mr. Romanov was very specific. You choose his engraving, and he chooses yours.”

My mind raced with possibilities—obscenities, threats, declarations of hatred. But something told me that’s exactly what Arrow expected. He wanted me to be predictable, to fulfill whatever dark fantasy he’d constructed about our relationship.

“Non omnis moriar,” I said finally. Latin. Not all of me shall die. A promise and a warning.

The assistant wrote it down without reaction, probably assuming it was something romantic. If only she knew.

When we returned, Arrow was signing the receipt, a black credit card already tucked back into his wallet. The manager beamed at us, clearly thrilled by whatever exorbitant amount had just been charged.

“Shall we deliver them to your residence, Mr. Romanov?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll send someone to collect them.” Arrow stood, buttoning his jacket. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said to the manager, his voice polished with professionalism. “The service has been impeccable.”

Outside, the sky had darkened, threatening rain. The car waited at the curb.

“Hungry?” Arrow asked as we approached the car.

“No.” I kept my eyes fixed on the pavement.

“Lunch,” he told his driver, ignoring my response. “The usual place.”

He opened the car door, and I slid inside, pressing myself against the far door again. Arrow followed, his presence filling the confined space like smoke.

“Was that so difficult?” he asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

I stared out the window, watching raindrops begin to streak the glass. “This isn’t a date.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s preparation for a marriage.”

The word made my stomach clench. Marriage.

To this man, who spoke of my brother’s murder as “unfortunate.” To this monster who wore civilization like a well-tailored suit.

This was my future. Car rides with a man who saw me as property, who claimed ownership of me with the casual arrogance of someone who had never been denied anything.

“A marriage requires consent,” I said, the words sharp on my tongue. “I don’t recall giving mine.”

His gaze settled on me. “Your father gave it for you. That’s how our world works.”

“Our world,” I repeated, tasting the bitterness. “You mean the world where men trade daughters like baseball cards? Where family loyalty means selling your child to monsters?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “That world.”

His honesty stunned me into momentary silence. I had expected denials, justifications, perhaps even threats. Not this calm acknowledgment of the ugliness that bound us.

The car slid through midtown traffic, wipers clearing the increasing rain in hypnotic sweeps. We stopped at a red light, and I watched a couple dash across the street under a shared umbrella, laughing as they dodged puddles. Normal people living normal lives. I would never know what that felt like.

“What did you have engraved on my ring?” I asked.

Arrow’s lips curved into that not-quite-smile again. “You’ll see it when you wear it.”

“And if I refuse to wear it?”

“You won’t.”

The certainty in his voice made me want to scream. I dug my nails into my palms, focusing on the sharp pain to ground myself.

“I hate you,” I whispered, the words inadequate for the depth of feeling behind them.

“I know,” Arrow said, those gray eyes studying me with a detached fascination that made my skin crawl. “Your hatred is the most honest thing about you.”