Chapter 33 Ivy
IVY
The silk dress Anya laid out for me this morning hangs on the closet door like a beautiful prison uniform.
Deep emerald green, it's stunning—the kind of dress I would have admired in a store window but never imagined wearing.
Now it feels like another costume I'm expected to put on for Konstantin's world.
I've been avoiding him for three days now, ever since the disaster at my mother's house. Every time I think about Frank's hurt expression, about my mother's horrified face, my stomach churns with a mixture of anger and something else I don't want to name.
A soft knock interrupts my brooding. "Come in," I call, expecting Anya with her gentle smile and motherly concern.
Instead, Konstantin fills the doorway, looking devastatingly handsome in a black suit that probably costs more than I used to make in six months. His green eyes find mine immediately, and I see the familiar flash of heat there before his expression becomes carefully neutral.
"You're not dressed." His voice is calm, but I catch the edge underneath.
"I'm not going." I cross my arms, very aware that I'm wearing nothing but a silk robe that barely reaches mid-thigh. The way his gaze drops briefly to my legs before snapping back to my face makes my skin flush with unwanted warmth.
"Yes, you are." He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds ominous. "This isn't a request, Ivy."
"Everything with you is a command, isn't it?" The words come out sharper than I intended. "Marry me. Attend this party. Smile and pretend you belong. Well, I don't belong, Konstantin. Your people look at me like I'm some exotic pet you've brought home."
Something flickers across his face, hurt, maybe, though it's gone so quickly, I might have imagined it. "They look at you because you're beautiful. Because you're mine."
"I'm not yours." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, especially when he takes another step closer and I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "I'm here because I have nowhere else to go. There's a difference."
"Is there?" His voice drops to that low, dangerous tone that makes my pulse race. "Because not long ago, when you were underneath me, crying my name, you seemed very much mine."
Heat floods my cheeks, and I hate how my body responds to the memory. "That was… that was just…"
"What?" He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Just what, Ivy? Just sex? Just convenience?"
I want to say yes, want to lie and create distance between us, but the words won't come. Because it wasn't just sex, and we both know it. What happened between us was something deeper, something that terrifies me more than Vadim's threats ever could.
"You hurt Frank," I whisper instead, deflecting. "He was just trying to help me."
"He was trying to take you away from me." Konstantin's hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my skin with surprising gentleness. "I won't let that happen, Ivy. I can't."
"Why?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Why does it matter so much to you?"
For a moment, his carefully controlled mask slips, and I see something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. "Because I made a promise to your father. Because you're under my protection. Because—” He stops, jaw clenching.
"Because what?"
"Because the thought of losing you makes me want to burn the world down." The admission seems to surprise him as much as it does me. His hand drops from my face, and he steps back, the professional mask sliding back into place. "Get dressed, Ivy. The party starts in an hour."
"And if I refuse?"
His smile is sharp, predatory. "Then I'll dress you myself. And I promise you, we'll both enjoy it far more than we should."
The threat—or promise—sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with cold. I know he means it. I also know that if he touches me right now, if he puts his hands on me with that focused intensity he's capable of, I'll melt into him like I always do.
"Fine," I say, lifting my chin. "But I'm not pretending to be happy about it."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
After he leaves, I stand there for a long moment, my heart racing and my skin still tingling from his brief touch.
I hate how easily he affects me, hate how my body betrays me every time he's near.
But more than that, I hate how much I want to please him, want to see that flash of approval in his eyes when he looks at me.
I'm in so much trouble.
An hour later, I'm standing in front of the mirror, barely recognizing myself.
The emerald dress fits like it was made for me, hugging my curves in all the right places before flowing out in a way that makes me feel elegant and feminine.
My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders, and the diamond earrings Konstantin gave me catch the light with every movement.
I look like I belong in his world. The thought should comfort me, but instead, it makes my chest tight with panic.
The party is already in full swing when I make my way downstairs. Konstantin is right—it's smaller than the Christmas Eve gathering, maybe fifty people instead of a hundred, but the energy is different. More intimate, somehow. More family than business.
Konstantin appears at my side almost immediately, his hand settling on the small of my back in a gesture that's become familiar. The warmth of his palm through the silk makes me shiver.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs in my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
"Thank you." I try to keep my voice neutral, but I can hear the breathiness in it.
He guides me through the crowd, introducing me to people whose names I'll never remember. Everyone is polite, even welcoming, but I can't shake the feeling that they're all watching me, evaluating me, trying to figure out if I'm worthy of their Pakhan's attention.
"You're being paranoid," I tell myself, but the feeling persists.
As the evening progresses, I find myself relaxing despite my best efforts.
The food is incredible—rich, decadent dishes that make my mouth water—and the champagne flows freely.
Konstantin stays close, his hand never leaving my back for long, and I find myself leaning into his touch more than I should.
"Marriage suits you," says Elena, one of the wives I met at Christmas. She's an elegant woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a warm smile. "You have a glow about you."
I nearly choke on my champagne. "A glow?"
"Oh, yes, definitely. Doesn't she, Katya?" She turns to another woman, who nods enthusiastically.
"Absolutely. You look radiant, dear. Marriage to a good man will do that."
I glance up at Konstantin, who's deep in conversation with Viktor about something that looks serious. A good man. Surely, they know who he is, a Mafia boss?
But then I remember how gentle his hands were on my face earlier, how vulnerable he looked when he almost told me why losing me would destroy him. Maybe good and bad aren't as simple as I thought.
The rich food is starting to make me feel slightly queasy, and I excuse myself to get some air on the terrace. The cold December night is a relief against my flushed skin, and I take several deep breaths, trying to settle my churning stomach.
"There you are."
I turn to find Konstantin approaching, concern creasing his brow. "Are you alright? You looked pale."
"Just needed some air. The food is rich, and I'm not used to…" I gesture vaguely at the opulence surrounding us.
He moves to stand beside me at the railing, close enough that our arms brush. "You'll get used to it."
"Will I?" I look out at the city lights twinkling below us. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life."
"This is your life now, Ivy." His voice is quiet, serious. "Our life."
The possessiveness in those words should annoy me, but instead, they make something warm unfurl in my chest. Our life. When did I start wanting that to be true?
"What if I can't do this?" The admission slips out before I can stop it. "What if I can't be what you need me to be?"
He turns to face me fully, his hands coming up to frame my face. "You already are everything I need."
The sincerity in his voice, the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious and rare, makes my heart skip. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to truly belong here, to be part of this family not because I have to be, but because I want to be.
The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
"We should go back inside," I whisper, but I don't move away from his touch.
"In a moment." His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I see the familiar heat building in his eyes. "I've barely had you to myself all evening."
"Konstantin…" I start to protest, but the words die when he leans closer, his lips brushing against my temple.
"I know you're still angry with me," he murmurs against my skin. "But I'm not sorry for protecting you. I'll never be sorry for that."
Before I can respond, the terrace door opens behind us. "Konstantin, there you are!"
We spring apart, and I turn to see Viktor approaching with an expression I can't read.
"What is it?" Konstantin's voice is sharp, all business.
"We have… unexpected guests."
Something cold settles in my stomach at Viktor's tone. Konstantin's hand finds my back again, but this time his touch is tense, protective.
"Who?"
"Ivan Bocharov. And his daughter."
I feel Konstantin's entire body go rigid beside me. Even I know that name—Mila's father, the head of another family. The woman who expected to marry Konstantin.
"They're here now?" Konstantin's voice is deadly calm.
"In the main room. Mila asked specifically to see your wife."
The way Viktor says 'wife' makes it clear he knows exactly how complicated this situation is about to become. My mouth goes dry, and I instinctively move closer to Konstantin.
"We'll be right there." Konstantin's hand presses more firmly against my back. "Stay close to me, Ivy. Don't leave my side."
"Why? What's going to happen?"
But he's already guiding me back toward the door, his jaw set in that way that means trouble. As we step back into the warmth and light of the party, I scan the crowd until I spot them.
Ivan Bocharov is a short, round man with piercing blue eyes that seem to take in everything. But it's the woman beside him who makes my blood run cold.
Mila is beautiful in a sharp, predatory way, with flame-red hair and green eyes that are currently fixed on me with undisguised hatred. But it's her expression that makes my stomach drop—she looks like a cat that's just cornered a particularly tasty mouse.
She looks like she knows something I don't.
As we approach, I feel Konstantin's hand stiffen against my back, his fingers pressing into my spine in a way that's almost painful. Whatever Mila's game is, whatever she's planning, Konstantin knows it's not going to be good.
Mila's smile widens as we get closer, and I realize with growing dread that she looks exactly like a cat that's just eaten the canary.
And I have the terrible feeling that I'm about to find out what she's been feeding on.