Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Kira
I wake to a hard, steady knock that cuts straight through sleep.
For a second, I think I imagined it, that my head is still stuck somewhere between last night and whatever dream I was having.
Then it comes again, slower this time but louder, like whoever’s behind the door knows I’m awake and doesn’t plan to leave until I open.
I sit up too fast and the room tilts for a second, the pale morning light sneaking through the blinds and landing across the floor. My phone says six-oh-three.
I groan, shove my hair out of my face, and grab the first thing within reach—a faded sweatshirt that smells faintly of detergent and exhaustion. My feet are freezing as I cross the room.
When I open the door halfway, he’s standing there. Dark suit, crisp shirt, no tie, eyes sharp and clear like he’s been awake for hours. He looks completely untouched by time or sleep or basic human limits, like he’s in control of everything around him, including me.
“Get dressed,” he says, his tone flat, like it’s the most ordinary request in the world.
I blink at him, still half-asleep. “It’s six o’clock.”
His eyes move over me once, calm and detached, taking in the sweatshirt, the messy hair, the fact that I clearly don’t care. “Five minutes,” he says again, as if repeating it will make me listen.
“For what?” I ask, my voice sharper now. “I have to be at work at 9:00.”
“We’re going out, I’ll get you back in time. Look presentable. Not like that.”
“What?” I stammer, looking down at myself, then back up at him.
He glances past me into the apartment, eyes sweeping over everything like he’s taking notes for a report. “Clothes, hair, whatever else women do to look presentable,” he says quietly, his voice low but certain. “Be ready.”
I stare at him, disbelief burning through the fog in my head. “You wake me up before sunrise to insult my wardrobe?” I ask, my voice rising with every word.
He looks back at me with that quiet, bored expression that says he’s already decided I’m wasting his time. “Kira, you have a part to play. I expect you to look it.”
I want to slam the door in his face, but part of me knows he’d just open it again. “You can’t seriously expect me to go anywhere with you right now.”
“I can and I do.”
He’s impossible. He speaks like he expects the world to listen, and maybe it usually does. I tell myself that’s why my pulse is racing, but the truth feels messier than that.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Five,” he says, already turning away. “Actually, four now.”
I shut the door hard enough to make the frame shake, then lean against it, breathing fast, trying to pull myself together while every nerve in my body feels stretched tight, buzzing under my skin.
For a moment I just stand there, staring at nothing, then I push off the door and hurry to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face until the sting clears the fog from my head.
I pull my hair into a messy bun, grab the first pair of jeans that still feel clean, and tug on a sweater that smells faintly of fabric softener.
When I finally step outside, he’s still there, the bastard, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand, like he’s been waiting for me all morning instead of the few minutes it actually took.
He looks up. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
I glare at him. “You woke me up at dawn. Be grateful I’m not in pajamas.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he doesn’t argue. He just walks past me toward the elevator. “Let’s go.”
As we step outside, I see a car waiting in front of the building.
Not just any car—the kind that looks like it belongs to someone important, all black and polished so clean it catches the morning light.
A driver steps forward and opens the door for me, and for a second I just stand there, not sure if I should get in.
Inside, it smells like leather and something faintly expensive. Artyom’s already seated, one hand resting on his knee, the other scrolling through his phone like he’s checking stocks or running a country. I sit beside him, cross my arms, and watch the city slide past the window.
“So,” I say after a minute, “where are we going exactly?”
“Shopping.”
I blink. “You woke me up at six in the morning to go shopping?”
He doesn’t look up. “You’ll need new clothes, shoes, jewelry, perfume, a proper coat.”
“I have clothes. And no shops work this early.”
“You have uniforms.” He finally looks at me then, eyes cool, assessing. “You’ll thank me later.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
He almost smiles, but it never quite reaches his eyes.
The city rolls by in streaks of gray and gold, and for a while it’s just the sound of tires on asphalt. Then, without looking up from his phone, he says, “You should start packing tonight. We leave in three days.”
I glance over. “Leave for what?”
“Sicily.” His tone is casual, as if he’s talking about a grocery run. “I told you the night you agreed to do this. There’s a gathering. Old alliances, family business.”
“I didn’t know you meant so soon,” My stomach knots. “You’re serious. In three days?”
“Completely.” He slips the phone into his pocket and finally looks at me. “They’ll expect to meet my fiancée.”
The word hits like a bad echo. I look out the window, watching the buildings blur. “So I’m just… coming along to play dress-up while you talk business? How am I supposed to justify that to my boss?”
“Pack light. You won’t need anything you can’t wear to dinner,” he says.
“Dinner with who?”
He doesn’t answer, just gives me that calm, unreadable look that says I’m better off not knowing.
I sink back against the seat, fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve.
Sicily. I’ve barely been out of the state, and now I’m supposed to step into his world and make everyone believe I belong there.
I picture the kind of people he deals with, dressed in sharp suits and colder smiles, and feel my pulse spike.
“How the hell am I supposed to pull that off?” I mutter.
“You’ll manage,” he says without looking at me.
“Yeah?” I glance at him. “Because pretending to be your fiancée in front of a bunch of criminals sounds like a skill I definitely do not have.”
He almost smirks. “You’re sharper than you think. Just don’t overthink it.”
Easy for him to say. He’s been trained for this. I’m just a nurse who still triple-checks a dosage before giving an injection.
The silence between us thickens until the driver finally turns off the main road and pulls into an underground parking lot, the tires echoing against the concrete walls.
The place is spotless, lit by soft white lights that make everything look a little unreal.
Artyom gets out first, and I follow, the chill in the air creeping through my sweater.
He nods to the driver, then walks toward a private elevator tucked behind a set of silver doors.
I step inside after him, still trying to wake up.
“Why are we even here this early?” I ask.
He presses a button without looking at me. “Because you need clothes.”
“I got that part,” I say, crossing my arms. “But why now? These places don’t even open till ten.”
He glances at me then, that small, unreadable smile flickering across his face. “They’re not open.”
I frown. “Then how are we—”
“They work for me,” he says, low and matter-of-fact, the kind of tone that fills the space between us without effort.
The elevator doors slide open before I can answer, and warm air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of perfume and polished marble.
We step into a bright lobby, empty except for a few employees standing near the storefronts, waiting like they knew he was coming.
My sneakers squeak against the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet.
A tall brunette in a fitted dress spots us from across the lobby and waves, her smile bright and easy. “Tyoma!”
Artyom’s expression softens for the first time since I met him. “Calina.”
She walks straight up to him, kisses his cheek, and turns to me with eyes the same sharp gray as his but warmer. “So this is her?”
Her tone is playful, but I freeze anyway.
“This is my sister,” Artyom says simply.
Before I can react, another woman joins us, younger, with hair so dark it almost shines blue under the lights. “You didn’t tell me she was pretty,” she says to him, grinning.
“This is Milana, my other sister,” Artyom says, his voice dry. “Don’t encourage her.”
Milana rolls her eyes. “You’re always so serious.” Then to me, “Don’t worry, he’s only this charming before noon.”
Something in me unclenches. “I see where he gets it.”
Calina laughs softly, looping her arm through mine like we’ve known each other for years. “Come on, Kira. We have work to do.”
“Work?”
“She means clothes,” Artyom says, stepping aside to let us pass.
What follows is pure chaos. The sisters know exactly what they’re doing, moving through stores like a well-trained army, handing me dresses, skirts, shoes, things I didn’t even know existed outside of fashion week.
Every time I step out of the fitting room, his sisters react first—gasps and claps or mutters about color or cut.
But he doesn’t move. Artyom sits back in a chair near the mirror, one arm resting along the back, his eyes following me in slow, deliberate passes that make my skin feel too tight.
He doesn’t look away when I catch him staring; if anything, he takes his time.
His gaze drags from my collarbone down the line of the dress, slow enough that I feel every inch of it, and by the time his eyes reach my legs, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. He says almost nothing, just small, clipped verdicts that slice through the air.
“Too short.”
“Too plain.”
“Better.”
He studies me like I’m something he already owns, deciding how much to reveal, and it shouldn’t make my stomach twist the way it does. Every time his gaze finds mine in the mirror, I feel heat crawl up my neck, and I hate that he can see it.