Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Kirill & Harper
Kirill
She was late.
In this city, few people made me wait. My patience was running thin. I wanted to stand up, have Boris pull the car around, and cross this name off my list for good. But Olga's words from yesterday still rang in my ears.
"She's the only option, Kirill. The only one. You know how hard it is to find a girl like that these days?" Then Olga paused, as if this reason wasn't persuasive enough, and added another line.
"Plus, she's got a great ass."
I suspected she'd gone mad in that damn nursing home, but I had no choice.
Olga was the only family I had left in this world. When I was ten, crawling out from my parents' corpses covered in blood, she raised me with that old hunting rifle and a will of iron. If she wanted the stars, I'd figure out how to get them for her. A wife was nothing in comparison.
So here I sat like a fool, enduring the stares around me, waiting for this nurse named Harper Evans.
Finally, movement at the door.
Boris walked in like a moving wall. And behind Boris's massive black bulk, that "great ass" Harper Evans finally appeared.
I narrowed my eyes, looking her over past that ridiculous bouquet of roses.
Honestly, it took me a few seconds to confirm it was her.
Harper Evans wasn't acting like herself. Today, she'd made herself... very strange.
She wore a chiffon dress in an aggressively hot pink, feet crammed into matching pointed-toe heels. That wasn't even the worst part. Her hair looked shellacked with too much hairspray, her eyelids glittered with some cheap shimmer that caught the restaurant's crystal chandeliers at weird angles.
I never understood young girls' fashion trends.
But as a man with normal aesthetic judgment, I had to make a fair assessment. This was a disaster. It didn't suit her at all.
The outfit didn't highlight her beauty—it buried every inch of those curves that could make a man's throat go dry.
What a waste.
Boris led her to the table.
Harper was clearly nervous. Her cheeks flushed red from nearly tripping on her way in, both hands clutching that worn handbag so tight her knuckles turned white.
"Mr. Orlov."
"If you're planning to drink for courage," I broke the silence, pushing aside the heavy wine list, "I suggest going straight for whiskey."
Harper's eyes flew wide, like me speaking to her was worthy of shock.
"Thank you. Water's fine." She dropped her head, staring at the tablecloth pattern like her life depended on it.
I leaned back in my chair, studying her. Couldn't help myself.
"You look terrible."
Harper looked up, confused. Those eyes caked with too much mascara blinked, showing obvious hurt.
"Oh... sorry."
I didn't know what she was apologizing for, but I'd clearly screwed up this first meeting with my future wife.
How many years had it been since I'd interacted normally with a woman outside of bed? I couldn't remember. My world consisted of negotiations, threats, orders, and executions.
For me, pointing out problems directly was the most efficient approach. If Boris dared show up in hot pink pants, I wouldn't hesitate to plant my shoe in his ass.
Comparatively speaking, I thought I'd been gentle enough.
But Harper clearly disagreed. She bit her lip, looking wounded, and tugged at her hem self-consciously, nearly burying her head in the table.
Was that reaction really necessary?
I didn't like her like this. I didn't like how she always cowered with her head down, afraid to meet my eyes, like I was some monster ready to strike.
Though, to be fair, that assessment wasn't entirely wrong.
"Forget it." I didn't want to waste time on fashion critique. I had business here.
I pulled a pre-drafted document from my suit jacket, sliding it across the smooth table toward her.
Harper looked at the document, confused, then back at me.
"What's this?"
"An offer letter. Or rather, a contract." I met her eyes. "I need a wife. Since Olga's decided it's you, then it's you."
Harper froze completely. She probably thought she'd misheard, or that my English had some accent.
"What?"
"Marriage," I repeated, giving her no buffer. "To me."
Harper
I stared blankly at the document on the table, those bolded words at the top burning my eyes.
Prenuptial Agreement.
This was a joke, right?
Had to be one of those prank shows. Maybe the camera was hidden behind that rose bouquet? Maybe any second now, Boris would jump out, yelling "Surprise!" and everyone would laugh at this delusional fool.
After all, just seconds ago, he'd looked at me like garbage. He'd ruthlessly mocked my dress, ridiculed my makeup, making me acutely aware of what I was to him—a tasteless fat girl with delusions.
Under the table, my hand pressed against the letter in my bag. Shame burned through me like fire.
I should rip it out right now and shred it.
Tear those pages full of pathetic love into confetti, dump them in that untouched water glass, then pour it over those roses with fake composure.
That would be my last dignity as someone who'd harbored a crush.
I'd end this before he completely crushed my heart.
But then he pushed this agreement toward me.
He proposed.
The whiplash made me dizzy. Undisguised disgust on one hand, a marriage contract on the other.
"Are you joking?" I heard my voice come out dry and hollow, as abnormal as this whole Kirill-proposing situation.
"I don't have time to come here just to joke with you." His voice was cold and businesslike. "You can view this as a suitable transaction."
Transaction.
"Why me?" I finally asked, my voice trembling slightly beyond my control. "If this is a transaction, you have so many choices. Those socialites, or models—they're prettier than me, more polished, and definitely know better how to make you happy."
Kirill glanced at me, his eyes utterly cold. "It's not that complicated. I need a wife to shut Olga up, and you've cleverly won her favor. Isn't this what you wanted?"
He thought I'd planned this. Thought I'd gotten close to Olga, endured her bad temper, watched those ancient Russian films with her, read her newspapers she couldn't even understand—all for this moment. He thought I'd calculated everything, waiting for this rich old lady to give me something.
I knew what I looked like to him now. A woman who'd sell anything for money. But since I already had enough for Aiden's surgery, I had no reason to endure his malicious assumptions anymore.
"I'm not merchandise." I took a deep breath, forcing my spine straight. "I don't need this fake marriage."
Anger gave me strength. I pushed back my chair to stand.
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Orlov."
But the moment I turned, tears threatened to spill.
How could he do this—mock me so carelessly, then demand I accept his damn transaction? Maybe this was his way of saying: Sure, I'm proposing, but not one word is voluntary. Look what a tasteless fat girl you are. Give up your ridiculous fantasies now.
I struggled to hold back the tears, trying to preserve one last shred of dignity.
"Before you leave," Kirill's voice stopped me. He seemed to reach out, tapping a finger on a specific line of the document. "Look at this clause first."
His voice was calm, yet carried a devil's temptation. I couldn't help turning back, obediently dropping my gaze to the line his finger indicated.
Will immediately assume all medical expenses for Aiden Evans, including but not limited to heart transplant surgery, post-operative anti-rejection treatment, and rehabilitation care for the next five years, ensuring S-class nursing care.
My breath stopped.
Yes, that hundred thousand was enough for surgery. But the doctor's words yesterday echoed like alarm bells in my head—"Surgery's just the first step. The aftercare, that's the real bottomless pit."
On my nursing salary alone, I couldn't afford decent care, much less those astronomical ongoing costs.
Surgery could keep Aiden alive, but then what? How would he keep living? Like a broken thing in a cheap ward waiting to die?
How could I do that to him? He'd already suffered enough.
"You know it," Kirill said, watching my frozen body, certain I'd wavered. He continued, "This is a reasonable transaction."
My brain started racing, weighing the pros and cons.
Wasn't this the best outcome for Aiden and me? Aiden could live—not just survive, but get the best treatment. He could even live like a normal boy, go to school, run around, have a life he'd never had before.
I couldn't refuse this deal that would save Aiden.
I stole a glance at that cold man.
How ironic. God had played the cruelest joke on me. I was about to marry the only man I'd ever secretly loved.
But only as a tool.
I slowly placed my bag on my lap and sat up straight again.
"If I sign," I heard myself ask calmly, "will you act immediately? I need to make sure Aiden gets the best care."
Kirill raised an eyebrow, seemingly satisfied with this suddenly practical version of me.
"Of course."
He pulled out that black checkbook, uncapping his pen. The scratch of nib on paper sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet air.
"I know the best cardiac surgeon in this city. He owes me a favor. Sign this, and Aiden moves to a VIP room tonight. I'll also contact America's top specialists for consultation."
He tore off the check, sliding it across the table toward me.
That thin slip of paper, covered in dizzying numbers. That was Aiden's life. And the price of selling my love.
I didn't look at the check. Just carefully folded it, tucking it in my bag, pressing it on top of that pink envelope.
Goodbye, love. Hello, life.
I picked up that heavy Montblanc pen, took a deep breath, and signed my name heavily on the signature line.
"Done."
I set down the pen, forcing an ugly smile.
"Pleasure doing business, Mr. Orlov."
Kirill picked up the agreement, examining the signature carefully, like checking merchandise quality.
Candlelight danced across his profile, carving out his knife-sharp features.
His lashes were long, casting faint shadows on his lids when they lowered, making him look less dangerous, more damnably attractive.
Damn it, he was really handsome.
"Pleasure doing business, Mrs. Orlov."