Chapter 2
SIMA
God, he’s hot.
It’s the worst possible thought at the worst possible time, but it’s there. Undeniable. Immediate. Unavoidable.
He’s Petyr Gubarev, and he’s super fucking hot.
My brain is short-circuiting, sending all available power to my eyeballs while the rest of me just sorta… stands there.
I keep cataloguing new details. Tattooed chest. Abs like carved stone.
Veins. Scars. The kind of body that makes you forget your morals, your last name, and how to use a doorknob.
I want to look away—I swear I really do try to look away—but my gaze keeps dragging over every inch of ink and muscle like it’s been personally wronged by the idea of self-control.
And then he speaks.
“You’re early.” He says it so self-assuredly that I almost miss how wrong those words are. “I assume you have a name.”
My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “Sima.”
Then I realize what I just said.
Shit.
I blink. My throat goes dry. Inside, I let out a scream that could crack every piece of crystal stemware in the reception hall.
Shit, shit, shit!
I gave him my name. My name. Not Sammi Banks, harmless wedding planner, but the real one. The one I’ve been guarding for twelve years. The secret no one is supposed to find out, not ever.
And now, I’ve gone and handed it to Petyr fucking Gubarev. As in, the big, bad boss of my family’s sworn enemies. The one person who’s got every reason to fillet me like a not-quite-vegan tuna fish.
If only that were all.
It’s not, though. Because not only did I just give him the one piece of information he never should have gotten his hands on—I’ve been ogling him like he’s a five-course meal, too.
But this one’s definitely got meat in it.
Dear God. What is wrong with me?
Internally, I keep screaming. And screaming, and screaming, and cracking the venue’s irreplaceable crystal glasses.
Outwardly, I plaster on a smile so fake it could be sponsored by a toothpaste brand and blurt out cheerily, “Sorry! Didn’t know anyone was in here.”
I move to leave. Every part of me wants to run. I’m about two seconds from diving headfirst through a linen closet door and making my escape via laundry chute when he stops me.
“Of course you knew.” He frowns like he’s wondering whether I’m not quite right in the head. “You’re here for me.”
Am I? For a second, I wonder if he’s right. He says it so matter-of-factly that it seems rude to point out that I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about.
Still, I feel a short burst of relief. His immediate response hasn’t been to make human sashimi out of me, which means he hasn’t connected the dots. Not yet, at least.
If I can get out of here fast enough, we can both pretend this never happened.
“I think you have the wrong person.” I start backing away slowly. “You’re getting married in, like, two hours, so—”
“So you’re not her.”
“Her?”
“My bride.”
Bride. He thought I was his bride. But—I mean, c’mon. The man is getting married today. Surely he’s got to know what his future wife looks like…
… Right?
As if reading my mind, he shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Never met her before. For all I knew, you were her.”
“How can you be getting married and not know who your own bride is?” I find myself asking incredulously, against all common sense. In my defense, it’s pretty fucking bananas.
But then I remember my brothers. Anatoli, Maksim—even Feliks, the youngest. I remember their wedding days like it was yesterday.
The forced cheer, the inner misery. All three of them married women they’d never met before.
If this exact scenario had happened to them, they might have come to the same conclusion Petyr did.
You’re here for me. The words melt into me like warm honey. For a second, I let myself imagine what would have happened if I had been there for him.
He would have come closer. Crowded me against the door. Bracketed me in with those weapons of mass destruction he calls “biceps” and—
And what? I slap myself mentally. He’s the enemy, you dummy! He’s a Gubarev and you’re the missing Danilo Bratva princess! He’d rather stick you with a knife than stick you with his—
“You look upset.” Petyr draws closer, a prowl straight out of my dirtiest fantasies. “Maybe you are here for me after all.”
I hate this. No—I hate him. Hate that he’s pushing every button I never knew I had, giving me tachycardia and dry mouth and a thousand other conditions more commonly found on the back of medication boxes.
Most of all, I hate that he’s still wearing basically nothing. A flimsy pair of boxer briefs, something that couldn’t hide his virtues or vices if he tried. Which he isn’t doing, like, at all.
“I, um—”
“Yes?”
He continues being naked in my presence. I continue to stammer like a remix version of myself.
“I’m not,” I manage to mumble. “Here. Not here for you, I mean.” He doesn’t look convinced, so I point at my nametag.
“This, um… This is me. I’m with the agency.
For the, err—planning. Of the wedding. Your wedding, I mean.
” God, someone just shoot me. “But of course you knew that. You’re, like, the groom. ”
“That I am.” His golden eyes fix on my nametag. “Miss…”
That’s when I realize my mistake.
Because, while my nametag does say Wedding Coordinator—a title I’m hoping will clear up this absurd misunderstanding—it also has my name on it. Obviously.
The problem?
It’s not the name I gave him.
I told Petyr that my name was Sima. But now, as his whiskey-and-honey eyes scan the writing on the tag, it’s not Sima he’s reading. It’s Sammi.
Pretty close, but nowhere near close enough.
And the look in his eyes says he knows I lied.
I scramble to cover the crack in my alibi before it swallows me whole.
“Not that it matters what my name is, because I’m not your bride!
Obviously. I mean, it’d be bad luck, right?
Seeing the bride before the wedding?” I try to wriggle closer to the door, to claw back some personal space.
“Very unlucky. I wouldn’t do that to you. If I were, um… your bride.”
He doesn’t so much as blink. “That bullshit was invented back when marriages were arranged. In case the groom caught a glimpse of his bride and decided to back out.”
He takes a step closer. Must not be a fan of personal space after all, I realize with gut-wrenching dread.
My back hits the door.
He takes another step.
And another.
And another.
Suddenly, I can feel everything. And I do mean everything. Like the fact that his abs clearly aren’t painted on, that his V-cut could slice me up like warm butter, or that I’m really hoping he’s hiding a gun in his underwear.
Because the alternative is both way better and much, much worse.
I try again to scoot away, but there’s nowhere left for me to go. Petyr advances the last few inches. His voice drops, quiet and slow. “If you were my bride, though,” he says, eyes locked on mine, “I wouldn’t call it off. Not after seeing you.”
My brain short-circuits so completely it might as well pop up a 404 error.
And still—still—some deranged part of me wants to laugh.
If he only knew.
If he had any idea who I was. If he could see past the cheap blazer and the nametag, if he connected the dots between my blunder and his blood feud…
There’s no way he’d want me then.
“You sure we haven’t met before?” he asks, frowning slightly. “You look… familiar.”
My stomach drops. “Positive,” I manage to squeak. “I mean, we obviously run in very different circles. I’m working class, and you’re, um, not.”
“No,” he concedes, “I’m not. But I never forget a face.”
Sweat springs to my skin. My fingers go numb. I drop my purse like it’s a hot potato and all my things go spilling out in every direction.
In any other circumstance, I’d be mortified at the sight of tampons and lip gloss rolling away like loose marbles, but I’m a little preoccupied with my imminent demise. I swear I can hear my own heartbeat in my teeth.
He knows.
He knows.
I open my mouth, no idea what excuse I’ll blurt this time, when—
BANG!
The other door slams open.
“Boss,” one of his men calls out, strolling in like he doesn’t even see me. “We’ve got a situation.”
Another guy follows, holding a phone, not even bothering to glance in my direction.
Petyr’s head turns. He’s distracted. For the first time since I set foot in this cursed storage room, he’s not looking at me.
It’s the only chance I’m gonna get.
I twist the doorknob and sprint out, heart in my throat, hands shaking. Out of sight, out of mind, I remind myself. Out of sight, out of mind.
I get out of sight and pray to whatever deity is listening that Petyr’s emergency kicks me far, far out of his mind.
God only knows what will happen if he gets his hands on me.