Chapter 4 Sienna
Sienna
The hotel suite is so quiet that it’s making me nervous.
Too clean.
Too still.
The kind of luxury I only see in movies. Gray marble floors and blackout curtains cracked open just enough to let in the glow of the city below.
A note sits on the bedside table beside a bottle of water beside a bouquet of pink flowers. My name is scrawled in slanted, elegant handwriting.
Breakfast in one hour. Wear the dress. We’ll discuss everything.
—B.
I sit up, groggy and mentally wrecked.
Then I see it: the dress.
It’s laid out over the chaise near the window, black silk that gleams in the sunlight, delicate straps, and a slit that screams expensive and intentional.
The tag is still on, of course. I don’t even want to look at the price, at how much I’m worth going to brunch with this man.
All I have are the jeans and white tee I wore yesterday.
The shirt is wrinkled, slightly stained near the hem from work.
My jeans are coated in old flour and batter.
No makeup. Just me, bare-faced, messy-haired, and thrown into a world I didn’t ask to enter.
I shower anyway and towel off, trying to force my head into some kind of readiness. But when I eye the dress again, I leave it hanging and step into my jeans. Screw him. He doesn’t get to control everything.
When I step into the hallway, practicing my brave face and organizing every ounce of courage I can muster, he’s there.
Leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place.
All-black suit, sharp lines, and that face that looks like it’s been carved to piss me off and turn me on at the same time. His eyes drop to my outfit, and I can practically feel the disapproval radiating off him.
“This is what you’re wearing?” Benedikt’s voice is low, threaded with annoyance, like he’s trying not to cause a scene in the upscale restaurant’s side corridor where we’ve just crossed paths.
His eyes rake over me once. He’s in an all-black suit, crisp and tailored to the exact breadth of his shoulders, his dark tie perfectly knotted. He looks like sin in a funeral suit, dangerous, rich, and absolutely out of my league in every sense.
“This is what I own,” I shoot back, brushing past him. The scent of him is deep, woodsy, threaded with something faintly smoky. It snags at my lungs and makes me want to pause, but I keep moving.
He’s quick to grab my bicep, his fingers warm and unyielding, pulling me into his side like he’s reeling in a fish that just tried to dart away. He leans down, his breath grazing my ear.
“What did my note say, princess?” he mutters, his voice velvet with a sharp edge. “I thought you knew how to read.”
The tip of his nose slips into my hair, close enough that his breath warms the back of my neck. My body reacts before I can help it, muscles tightening, and pulse kicking, but I force my chin higher.
“I’m not—”
He tugs harder on my arm, enough to make me stumble a fraction closer, but there’s nowhere else to go.
Benedikt fills every inch of my personal space, his chest brushing my shoulder. His cologne is intoxicating, the kind of scent that clings long after the man leaves.
“Repeating is one of my pet peeves, Sienna. In fact, my number one, if we’re being technical.” His tone dips lower, enough that I feel it in my spine. “I told you to wear the dress. You’re going to wear the dress, aren’t you, princess?”
My pulse hammers, but I still force my next words from my throat. “You don’t get to tell me what to wear, Benedikt. I’m not your doll.”
He gives me a slow smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You underestimate yourself, princess. But I do get to tell you what to do. In fact, I get to tell you quite a lot of things now.” His thumb brushes the inside of my arm in a way that feels deliberate, almost like he’s testing just how far my pulse will spike.
“This isn’t a date. This is business. And I expect my business partner to dress accordingly. ”
“I’m not your partner.”
That smirk sharpens. “You’re about to be my wife. And the mother of my heir. That makes you my partner in the only way that matters to me.”
The words hit me like cold water.
There’s no romance here.
No soft build-up, no chance to be wooed. He’s laying it out plainly: what he wants, what I am to him.
And yet, some deeply stupid part of me can’t ignore how close he is. How his hand on my arm makes it hard to think straight. How the weight of his gaze strips me down to nerve endings.
“Come on,” he murmurs, steering me toward the door. “Let’s go over this arrangement so you can hate me for the next five years.”
—
The restaurant is one of those penthouse places with dim lights, heavy velvet chairs, and floor-to-ceiling views of the skyline. I walk in and immediately feel like I’m being watched.
Everyone’s in suits and cocktail dresses, talking in low murmurs like they’re all carrying secrets at ten in the morning.
And here I am. In jeans.
This is all insanity and stupid. Who does this?
Rich people.
Waiters in white shirts and black vests move silently between tables. He doesn’t wait for a hostess, leading me straight to a corner booth with a view of the whole room, like a man who owns the place or is paranoid he’s going to get assassinated from behind.
We sit as he takes the seat opposite with the slow ease of someone who commands attention without asking for it.
The leather booth squeaks faintly beneath him.
Menus appear without a word.
Water in tall glasses.
I’m going to get sick.
“Let’s go over the terms,” he says, like we’re negotiating over coffee instead of deciding the next five years of my life. “No point in me asking what you have planned today or all the ways you’d like to kill me.”
The server appears out of nowhere, and Benedikt doesn’t even look at the menu when he tells her, “She’ll have the eggs benedict. I’ll take the steak and eggs. Black coffee. Bring her cream and sugar, please.”
The waitress disappears without another word, hinting that he’s been here before, and I glower at him for being an overpowering jerk. “Can I still speak for myself when we’re married? Or is that in the contract?”
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
He doesn’t appear surprised. He doesn’t even bother giving me anything but a straight face. “Then why don’t you tell me your terms, and if I agree, I’ll have them added if they’re not already in there.”
I lean forward, arms placed firmly on the table before I inhale deeply. Pressure to not forget anything eats at me, and I try my best to remain collected and calm. “I’ll give you five years. I’ll live with you. I’ll play the fake fiancée—”
“Wife,” he interrupts flatly. “You’ll be my wife, princess.”
Damn it.
Straightening my spine, I continue, “I’ll give you the heir you want. But I need to keep working. My life doesn’t stop just because I’m suddenly Mrs. Volkov in public.”
“Agreed. You can work. Your job stays.”
“And I need space. My own room. My own bank account. I don’t want to be watched every second.”
“You’ll have your own personal bodyguards.” I open my mouth to protest but he adds, “At a distance. You already have a shadow. No need to give you another one.”
“Is that to be safe or monitored?”
“Same thing.”
I scowl, but keep going. “And I need a way out. If I say I’m done—if I hit a limit—you don’t get to trap me.”
“You’re only agreeing to five years, Sienna,” he says calmly. “Not a lifetime.”
“Yeah, well, five years with someone like you might feel like one.”
He smirks.
The server returns with coffee. I wrap my hands around the warm mug like it’ll steady me.
“And what do you get?” I ask. “Other than an heir and someone to flaunt in public?”
He doesn’t even blink. “You.”
My stomach clenches.
He says it so simply. Like I’m a piece of property that’s been transferred into his name. Not a person with a history. With heartbreak. With a father who gave me away like I was a used car.
I can’t stop myself.
“What happens after five years, Benedikt? When the contract ends? When we get divorced and I’ve given you what you want…what happens to the child?”
He lifts his cup, taking a sip of his coffee. Then he sets it down, careful and measured.
“We’ll deal with that when it comes.”
“No,” I say, sharply. “You don’t get to be vague about that. If I carry your child, raise them for five years, I need to know—will I still get to see them?”
His eyes narrow. “You’re asking me if I’d cut you out.”
That and more.
If I’d be someone he used to know but won’t allow in our child’s life. If he has the ability to use me, then throw me to the curb like I was nothing at all.
I don’t believe Benedikt understands the sanctity of marriage. I don’t trust that he’ll ever have good intentions when it comes to me.
We’re a business deal after all.
And I’m the one with the highest stakes, so my father doesn’t die.
“Yes.”
He leans back in the booth, studying me like he’s trying to decide how much truth to hand over.
I don’t like it.
However, I have a feeling he’s toying with me. And he’s enjoying himself.
“I don’t plan on taking a mother away from my child,” he says finally. “A mother is something I can’t replace.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no either.”
That frustrates me more than anything. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I haven’t even signed my name to the contract yet.
“I’m not a surrogate, Benedikt. This isn’t a business deal for me. If I have a baby, I’m not going to be able to just walk away from him or her.”
“Then don’t.”
I make a face at him. “What? I agreed to five years—”
“Married to me,” he returns. “But I don’t promise things I can’t control.”
“I want to still be around my child. How can you not control that?”
He pushes his coffee mug to the side and leans over the table.
“Because I can’t control if you remarry.
I can’t control if you’ll fall in love, meet a man who dates and swoons over your beauty with promises of the world in his hands.
But, I will tell you, princess…no one will raise my child but me and you.
No other opinion will matter. If you want to see our son, you’ll make sure to tell your future Prince Charming to stay the fuck out of our child’s life.
If you don’t…I can’t promise you seeing our child.
No other man will be involved. Do you understand? ”
I bob my head without thinking of anyone else. Dating and getting married again doesn’t sound enjoyable right now, let alone years from now.
“Did you want anything else?”
I stare at him. My throat tight, and my mind whirling with the possibilities that Benedikt might keep my child from me.
A child we don’t have yet.
It feels like another leash being tethered to him after our agreement is over. Like there is no way out of this.
Away from him.
“Your grandmother’s expenses will be paid for as long as she’s alive. I am also in the market for purchasing a bakery. You’ll have it within a week. Outright, no debt.”
“W-what?”
Benedikt takes that time to take a sip of his coffee, prompting my brain to slow down and soak in what he’s doing.
What he doesn’t need to do.
It's too much. Too calculated.
“Your friend said you two dreamed of owning a bakery one day. Your boss is a lazy piece of shit who shouldn’t have bought one in the first place.”
“And in return?” I ask carefully, fully prepared for him to shoot me with something I’m going to stop breathing for.
“Nothing I haven’t already said.”
The food arrives, and for a while, we eat in silence. I hate that it’s perfect. Rich and buttery, the yolk from the egg oozes just right over the biscuit. I soak it up with my fork and chew slowly, trying to keep from groaning.
Ben eats like he’s starving. His steak is rare, and eggs are scrambled.
Clean, efficient bites.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him relax, even a little. He watches me over the rim of his coffee cup while I try to eat, but it’s hard.
Being with him every day is going to be hard.
“You need clothes,” he says suddenly. “You don’t belong in jeans here.”
“You brought me here.”
“I didn’t say I minded the jeans.”
“You just said earlier I should’ve worn the dress.”
“I said that because you’re in public. With me. And image matters.” His gaze dips down slowly. “But if I’m being honest…I didn’t hate the jeans. I just hated the stares.”
I blink. “What stares?”
“You don’t notice?” He’s almost amused. “Every man in this restaurant has looked at you. You walk in looking like sin after a bad night, all messy and soft, and they can’t stop staring.”
My face heats.
He leans in, his voice lowering. “I’m used to being looked at, Sienna. I’m not used to sharing attention.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
He grins. “It’s about to become yours.”
The air between us feels heavier than it should. I grip my fork, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m annoyed or because my pulse just won’t slow down.
“You skipped the part where you’re basically buying me,” I say.
He shrugs like it’s not an insult, like it’s simply a fact. “I’m investing in you. There’s a difference.”
I scoff, but he leans in until I can smell that warm, woodsy cologne again.
“You’ll sign the contract by tomorrow night,” he says quietly, like he’s not giving me a choice.
“You’ll stay at the hotel until the end of the week, and on Saturday, you move in.
I’ve already arranged for you to have your own space, your own room.
I’m not rushing you into my bed. Unless you rush yourself. ”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach does that annoying drop anyway.
“And if I don’t sign?”
“Then you’re choosing the harder option. And I promise, princess, I don’t lose.”