Chapter 5 #2
At first, it makes me want to throw something at him. But the longer it is, the more confusing it gets. Because sometimes his gaze lingers for a second too long. Sometimes his voice drops when he says the word “better,” and it does something strange to the air around us.
Milana teases him mercilessly. “You’ve turned into Father,” she says, holding up a silk blouse. “Do you even consider her opinion?”
Artyom doesn’t blink. “I have to make her look convincing.”
I pull the curtain closed again and stare at the dress draped over the hook—dark, fitted, the kind that belongs to women who know exactly what they’re doing, not me.
Still, I slip it on. The fabric clings in all the wrong ways at first, then in ways that make me pause.
It’s beautiful. It’s too much. I don’t know which bothers me more.
I turn in the mirror, catching a glimpse of myself in the light. The woman staring back doesn’t look like a nurse from Brooklyn. She looks like she belongs somewhere expensive, somewhere dangerous.
It hits me then, how easily a dress can change everything. How easily he can.
My fingers hover over the zipper, then drop. I can’t decide whether I want to walk out there or tear it off. The fabric fits too well, like it knows things about me I’d rather not admit.
The curtain rustles.
“Kira?” His voice is low, calm, too close.
My heart jumps. “I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just… figuring it out.”
There’s a pause long enough to make my skin prickle. Then the curtain slides open.
He steps in before I can stop him, and for a second the world tilts. The space is too small for both of us—his suit brushing against the fabric at my back, his scent hitting me like something physical. His eyes sweep over me once, deliberate, before they meet mine in the mirror.
I fold my arms across my chest, though it does nothing to hide how bare I feel. “You don’t knock, do you?”
“You were gone ten minutes,” he says, voice even. “Thought you passed out.”
“Hardly.” My tone comes out flatter than I mean.
He moves closer, close enough that when I breathe in, I catch the warmth of his skin under the clean bite of cologne. It makes my pulse stutter.
“I was deciding if I hate it,” I mutter.
“You shouldn’t.” His gaze drags slowly down my reflection, lingering where the dress hugs my hips. “It suits you.”
He reaches up, catching the loose tag near my shoulder, and straightens it. His knuckles brush the curve of my neck, careless maybe, but the touch burns. My breath snags. His hand doesn’t leave right away.
“You shouldn’t hide in things that make you smaller,” he says quietly, his voice right by my ear. “This—” his fingers trace the line of the strap just once, “—makes you look like you just remembered who you are.”
I can’t answer. I can barely think.
Then he steps back, gaze still on mine in the mirror, and the air rushes in again. “We’re done here,” he says softly. “Get this dress and let’s go.”
But after he’s gone, I’m still standing there, heart pounding, his scent all over the room and the ghost of his touch still warm on my skin.
I should hate all of this. The clothes, the makeup, the attention. I should hate the way he looks at me, calm and sure and completely in control. But somewhere under the irritation, something else hums. Something that feels dangerously close to wanting him to look longer.
When we’re finally done, I’m carrying three bags I didn’t pay for and wearing a coat that probably costs more than my used car did.
Milana grins as we walk toward the exit. “You clean up well.”
Calina nods in agreement. “You’ll pass.”
“Pass for what?” I ask.
She smiles. “For someone who could survive next to him.”
Artyom’s voice cuts in from behind us. “We’re leaving.”
“Do you ever smile?” I call over my shoulder.
“Rarely.”
“So annoying,” Calina mutters, then squeezes my hand. “You’ll get used to him.”
I don’t answer.
I’m not sure I want to.
The ride back is quiet. He sits beside me again, scrolling through his phone while I stare out the window, this time watching the city bustle.
“Your sisters are nice,” I say finally.
“They’re a headache.”
“Maybe they learned it from you.”
That earns me a look. “Careful.”
“Why? If I was truly your fiancée, we would be bickering all the time. We’re training now.”
I turn back to the window before he can see me smile.
When the car finally stops in front of my building, I think I’m free. But as I reach for the door handle, he speaks.
“Wait.”
I pause. “What now?”
He pulls a folded stack of papers from his coat pocket and hands them to me. “Homework.”
I blink. “You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke.”
“Clearly,” I say, snatching the papers from his hand.
I unfold the pages and stare. It’s a questionnaire—dozens of questions about favorite foods, childhood memories, how we met, our first kiss, what I love most about him.
“What the hell is this?”
“Our story,” he says, completely serious. “We’ll need to match answers when people ask.”
“Do you realize how crazy this is?”
He doesn’t answer, then reaches into his pocket again and hands me another stack. “Those are my answers. Memorize them.”
I flip through the pages. His handwriting is sharp, precise and infuriatingly neat.
“How long did you spend on this?” I ask, flipping through the pages, still trying to decide if this is a joke.
“Long enough,” he says, his voice calm, patient in a way that only makes me angrier.
“This is unbelievable,” I mutter, shaking my head.
He almost smiles, a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s always true,” I shoot back, meeting his eyes for a moment too long.
He leans closer, close enough that I can feel his breath when he speaks, his voice dropping low. “You’d better learn fast, Kira. People will be watching.”
The way he says my name does something strange to my chest, like a flicker of heat I don’t want to feel. I shove the papers into my bag.
“Fine. I’ll study,” I mutter. “But if anyone asks, I was kidnapped.”
He looks at me for a moment, unreadable. “That’s not far from the truth.”
The words hit harder than they should. I step out of the car and slam the door, breathing in the cold air.
He rolls down the window. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll text you at what time.”
“I have to go to work.”
“I know.”
The car pulls away and he’s gone, disappearing into traffic like it never existed.
I stand there for a long moment, watching the street. My hands are shaking, but not from fear this time. Maybe anger. Maybe something worse.
Inside, I drop the bags on the floor and sink onto the couch, pulling the papers from my bag. His handwriting stares back at me, steady and controlled.
Favorite drink: Vodka.
Favorite color: Gray.
How we met: Mutual friend’s engagement party.
What I first noticed about her: Her lips.
My chest tightens as I stare down at his words, and for a moment I just sit there, feeling the weight of everything that’s happened pressing against my ribs. I close my eyes and let the papers slip from my fingers, the soft rustle of them hitting the table the only sound in the room.
He’s impossible—controlling, arrogant, always so sure of himself—and I should hate every part of him for it.
But the truth is, every time he looks at me with those calm, unreadable eyes, something inside me stirs, something that feels dangerously close to wanting to know what’s underneath all that control.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity, maybe survival, maybe trying to understand the man who suddenly owns my time. But deep down, under the noise and the fear and the anger, I already know I’m lying to myself.
I get up and get ready for work.