7. Seven
SEVEN
HARLOWE
The car pulled up to a restaurant with darkened windows and a discreet entrance.
Two men in suits materialized, opening our doors before the car fully stopped.
Arrow emerged first, buttoning his jacket with that precise, mechanical movement that seemed to define him.
He didn’t offer his hand when I stepped out, which was a small mercy.
I didn’t want to touch him any more than necessary.
“This way,” he said, his hand hovering at the small of my back again, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his palm.
The restaurant interior was full of polished wood and hushed conversations.
The ma?tre d’ recognized Arrow immediately, bowing slightly as he led us to a corner table partially screened by a decorative partition.
Private, but still visible enough to be seen by anyone who mattered.
This wasn’t just lunch, it was a statement.
“Mr. Romanov, your usual table,” the ma?tre d’ said, pulling out my chair.
I sat, wondering how many women had occupied this seat before me. How many potential brides had Arrow paraded through this restaurant, evaluating their suitability to bear his name?
“Wine?” Arrow asked as the sommelier appeared at his elbow.
“I don’t care,” I said, unfolding my napkin with unnecessary force.
He ordered something in French, and the sommelier nodded appreciatively before gliding away. I stared at the menu without seeing it, the words blurring before my eyes. Everything felt surreal, as if I were watching my life unfold from outside my body.
“The duck is excellent,” Arrow said, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
I looked up at him, taking in the perfect angles of his face. The restaurant lighting softened his features, but there was nothing soft about Arrow Romanov. Even in repose, he radiated danger.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, setting the menu down.
“You’ll eat anyway.” He closed his own menu without looking at it. “You need your strength.”
“For what?” I asked, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “To bear your children? To be a good little mob wife?”
His eyes flicked to mine, something dark passing behind them. “For survival.”
The sommelier returned with a bottle, presenting it to Arrow with practiced deference. After the ritual of tasting and approving, he poured two glasses and disappeared again.
Arrow lifted his glass, the deep red liquid catching the light. “To new beginnings,” he said.
I didn’t touch my wine. “To old grudges.”
His mouth quirked at the corner. “Drink, Harlowe.”
Lifting the glass to my lips, I still didn’t sip. “Why are you doing this? The rings, this lunch. Playing at normalcy when we both know it’s a sham?”
He set his glass down. “Because appearances matter. Soon, you’ll be Mrs. Romanov, and people will be watching. I need them to believe we’re united.”
“Why? So your enemies don’t smell weakness?”
“Exactly.” His honesty was more disarming than any lie could have been. “A house divided is vulnerable. And I protect what’s mine.”
I felt a chill at his words. There it was again—that possessive claim, stated so matter-of-factly that it left no room for debate. In Arrow’s mind, I already belonged to him. The wedding was merely a formality—a public declaration of ownership that had already been decided.
“I’m not yours,” I said, unable to hide the venom in my voice.
“You are.” He signaled to the waiter, who appeared instantly. “We’ll have the duck and the sea bass. And bring another bottle.”
The waiter nodded and retreated. I stared at Arrow, fury building in my chest.
“You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”
“You said you weren’t hungry. That means you forfeit your choice.” He took another sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine. “Besides, you’ll like the sea bass.”
“How would you know what I like?” I hissed, leaning forward to challenge him.
“I know everything about you, Harlowe.” His voice dropped lower, intimate enough that only I could hear.
“Your favorite color is midnight blue, but you wear black to seem harder than you are. You take your coffee black with a single sugar cube that you let dissolve before stirring. You prefer pain to pleasure because it feels more honest. You’ve fucked seventeen men and four women, but you’ve never let any of them stay until morning.
You visit your brother’s grave every Sunday with white lilies, even though you hate lilies.
” He leaned closer. “And you dream about killing me at least once a day.”
My blood ran cold.
The glass trembled in my hand, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“You’ve been having me followed.”
“Of course I have.” He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re valuable.”
“I’m property,” I corrected.
“Property implies something inanimate. Something without potential.” His eyes traced the contours of my face with unsettling precision. “You’re far more interesting than that.”
The waiter returned with our food and arranged the plates. Steam rose from the perfectly-seared sea bass, the scent making my stomach clench in hunger. I hadn’t eaten properly in days, and my body was betraying me, responding to the promise of nourishment even as my mind rebelled.
“Eat,” Arrow said, picking up his fork. “Before it gets cold.”
I stared at the fish, pristine on its bed of white asparagus, and a delicate lemon sauce that pooled at the edges. Picking up my fork, I set it down again, a small rebellion.
“I need to use the restroom.”
Arrow’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Of course.”
Standing, I smoothed my dress with trembling hands, and made my way through the restaurant.
Eyes followed me—not just Arrow’s, but others.
People who recognized a Virelli when they saw one, who knew what my presence with Arrow Romanov meant.
The weight of their stares pressed against my back like hands.
The bathroom was empty, with gleaming marble counters and soft lighting designed to flatter even the most haggard faces. I gripped the edge of the sink.
“You are not breakable,” I whispered to my reflection. “You are a Virelli.”
But what did that even mean anymore? My father had sold me without blinking. My brother was dead. My mother had chosen poison over staying in this world. The Virelli name meant nothing now—just a bargaining chip in the Romanov’s twisted game.
The bathroom door swung open. A woman entered. Tall, blonde, with the kind of cold beauty that only comes from generations of privilege. She glanced at me, recognition flickering in her eyes as she moved to the sink beside mine.
“So it’s true,” she said, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “The Virelli princess is marrying Arrow Romanov.”
I straightened, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Do I know you?”
She smiled, a predatory curve of her thin mauve lips. “Katerina. My family does business with the Romanovs.” She reached into her purse, extracting a tube of lipstick. “I just wanted to see the woman who caught Arrow’s attention. He’s famously particular.”
I watched as she applied her lipstick. “Is that what they call it?”
“Among other things.” She capped the tube and dropped it back into her purse. “I heard he had you collared. Like a pet.”
My hand instinctively went to my throat, where the obsidian collar had been.
She turned to face me fully. “I’ve known Arrow for years—since we were children, actually. He doesn’t do anything without purpose.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?” I reached for a paper towel to dry my hands that weren’t wet.
Katerina leaned against the counter. “Arrow Romanov has never been a one-woman type of man. He’s always fancied pussy over commitment. If you think you can chain him to you, you’re wrong. He has his vices, and no matter how good you suck his dick, there will always be someone who sucks it better.”
“Is this what you do for fun?” I asked, my voice steady despite the rage bubbling beneath. “Lurk in bathrooms to intimidate women you don’t know?”
Katerina’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. “Just offering some friendly advice. This world eats girls like you alive.” She smoothed her already perfect hair.
Before I could respond, she was gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of her suffocating perfume.
When I returned to the table, I saw her sitting in my spot at the table, and she was laughing at something Arrow had said.
His hand rested on the table, close to her manicured fingers, and I watched as she leaned in and whispered something that made his mouth twitch.
I froze, my stomach twisting with something I refused to call jealousy. This was rage. Pure, undiluted rage at the audacity of this woman to touch what was—
No. I stopped that thought cold. Arrow wasn’t mine. I didn’t want him to be mine. I wanted him dead, preferably by my hand. But that wouldn’t stop me from causing a little chaos.
Approaching the table, I forced my face into a mask of indifference. “Am I interrupting?”
Katerina’s eyes glittered with triumph as she looked up at me. “Not at all. I was just catching up with an old friend.”
She stayed in my seat, smirking at me.
Arrow took a sip of his wine. “Katerina Volkov. Her father runs weapons through the Baltic.”
“We’ve just met, actually. In the bathroom, of all places,” I smiled sweetly, and when I realized she wasn’t planning on getting out of my seat, I took matters into my own hands.
I sat on Arrow’s lap, my movements deliberately languid as I draped myself across his muscular thighs. His body stiffened beneath me, the momentary surprise quickly masked by that infuriating control. His hand settled on my waist, his touch burning through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Arrow and I were just discussing our wedding rings. Did he tell you about the engraving? It’s quite intimate.”
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against my hip. I felt the tension radiating through his body, his thighs like steel beneath me. The possessive gesture wasn’t lost on Katerina, whose smile faltered for a fraction of a second.