Chapter 17
OLIVIA
Even I have to admit: Stefan Safonov has got a pair on him.
He still expects our “not-date” to happen. Worse, he’s trying to buy my compliance.
The evidence is sprawled across my bed: a massive black box stamped with a Dior logo and tied with a nude ribbon, flanked by two smaller boxes that smell subtly of expensive perfume. That elegant branding might as well read “brIBE” in forty-eight-point font.
I should throw those damn packages out the window. Watch them splatter on the manicured lawn below. Make a statement about how I can’t be bought.
But I’m nowhere close to pissed at Dior. If the wrapping is this pretty, imagine what’s waiting for me inside.
Damn my curiosity.
I open the largest box first, fingers trembling as I lift the lid. A stark white card sits on top of layers of tissue paper, the handwriting bold and unmistakably Stefan’s: For our dinner tonight.
The arrogance of it makes my teeth grind.
Then I push aside the tissue paper, and every ounce of indignation evaporates.
“Oh. My. God.”
The dress is gorgeous—a backless red number that looks like it was crafted from dreams and wishes. The fabric shimmers in the light, silk so fine it might dissolve at a touch. I lift it carefully, and it flows through my fingers.
The other boxes escalate the temptation to astronomical levels. A pair of strappy black Louboutins. A diamond cluster necklace, complete with matching earrings and a bracelet.
With one—or technically speaking, three—wordless gestures, he’s managed to convince me to come to this dinner. I’ll dress up for him. I’ll play along.
God knows I need something nice in my life.
“Meh, I’m a lightweight.” I groan at my reflection as I hold the dress against my body. “Show me some pretty things and I fold like a cheap umbrella.”
Maybe I’m more like my mother than I thought.
The horror of that realization should be enough to make me stuff everything back in the boxes and wear my rattiest sweats to dinner.
But it’s not. It’s still not horrifying enough to change my mind.
Because the dress is really pretty. And these diamonds deserve a night out.
And maybe—just maybe—I want to see Stefan’s face when he catches sight of me in this.
Two hours later, I’m dressed in diamonds and Dior, studying my reflection with a mixture of awe and self-loathing.
The woman in the mirror looks expensive. Untouchable. Like she belongs on Stefan’s arm at galas and charity auctions, not hunched over patient files in a struggling fertility clinic.
Yeah, I feel good. Really good. I kinda want Stefan to see me like this and eat his heart out.
But I’m also starting to feel like a prostitute. A high-end prostitute, sure, but still. He bought me these things expecting... what? Compliance? Forgiveness? A repeat of our desk activities?
The knock at my door isn’t Stefan’s usual commanding rap. It’s tentative, almost hesitant. I open it expecting him, already armed with a cutting remark about his bribery attempt.
“You think you can just… Oh. Taras?”
Taras stands three feet back from the door, phone dangling from one hand, looking deeply uncomfortable. His usual swagger is notably absent.
“I’m your chauffeur for the night,” he announces, not quite meeting my eyes. “Boss’s orders. I’m going to drive you to your date.”
“It’s not a date.”
His eyes finally land on me, taking in the dress, the diamonds, the full effect of Stefan’s shopping spree. “Right. Because that’s the kind of outfit you wear on a friendly dinner.”
“He’s the one who sent me the outfit.”
“Did he also force you to wear it?”
I hate that he has a point.
We make our way down the stairs, Taras keeping a careful distance like I might spontaneously combust. Or maybe he’s just trying not to look at the way this dress clings to absolutely everything.
“Careful on the staircase,” he says when I wobble in the Louboutins. “I don’t want you to trip on all your righteous indignation.”
I flip him off. He laughs, and suddenly, the awkwardness dissipates.
“It’s a pretty dress,” I defend myself as we exit through the front door. “And these diamonds are nice, too. Besides, this dinner is entirely innocent.”
“Right. So’s that slit in your dress. Very ‘innocent.’”
A sleek blue Lamborghini waits in the driveway, engine purring like a satisfied cat.
“Really?” I ask. “A Lamborghini?”
“Boss wanted to make an impression.”
“Mission accomplished.”
He opens the passenger door with exaggerated gallantry. I slide in, trying not to flash him in the process. The dress really wasn’t designed for getting in and out of low-riding sports cars.
My plan for moody silence lasts approximately two minutes before curiosity wins. “Where is Stefan? Why didn’t he pick me up himself?”
Taras shifts gears. “He’s a busy man. He had things to do.”
“Like hunt down his mother?”
The smile drops from Taras’s face like I’ve slapped him. His hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. “That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.” I study his profile, the sudden tension in his jaw. “Why does everyone hate her so much? I mean, I get Stefan’s anger—she betrayed his father, disappeared, all of that. But you’ve never even met her, have you?”
“No.”
“But you still want her dead.”
“I suppose, yeah.”
“Well, I’d say that’s a pretty strong opinion to have of someone you never actually met.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, navigating Boston traffic.
“Has she earned her reputation?” I press. “Or was she treated unfairly? Or maybe, just maybe... both are true.”
“I know she managed to convince you that she’s some misunderstood martyr,” Taras says finally, his accent thickening with emotion. “But trust me, she’s not. Natalia Safonova is a fucking snake.”
“Based on what? Stefan’s version of events? Stories passed down through the Bratva telephone game?”
He takes a sharp turn that presses me against the door. “Based on what she did to my family.”
That stops me cold. “Your family?”
“Both my parents worked for Stefan’s family, actually. My father was a vor to Matvey—Stefan’s father—and my mother was the housekeeper.” His voice carries an edge I’ve never heard before. “They even had a little cottage at the far end of the property.”
“That sounds... nice?”
“It was. Until Vasily decided my mother was interesting.”
“Vasily, as in… Stefan’s uncle?”
“The same. He had a wandering eye, and it fell on my mom. She was beautiful—long dark hair, green eyes. The kind of beauty that made men stupid.”
“She wasn’t interested?”
“She was married. To my father. Who worked for Vasily’s brother. You’d think that would matter.”
“But it didn’t.”
“Of course not. Men like Vasily don’t understand the word ‘no.’” He takes another turn, this one gentler. “But Natalia understood. She saw my mother as a threat.”
“To her marriage? But wasn’t she having an affair—?”
“To her position. Her power. Natalia didn’t give a shit about Vasily’s fidelity. She cared about being the most beautiful woman in the room. The most desired. My mother’s existence challenged that.”
We’re heading toward the harbor now, the city lights reflecting off dark water.
“One day, my father came back from a job to find my mother with a split lip and her hair hacked off.”
“Jesus.”
“Vasily had complimented her on her hair at dinner the night before. Just a passing comment: ‘Your hair looks lovely tonight.’ That’s all it took. The next day, Natalia lured my mother into the laundry room and came at her with a meat cleaver.”
“A meat cleaver?”
“Could have been worse. Could have been her throat instead of her hair.”
I feel sick. The image of Natalia from our meeting—elegant, composed, tragic—clashes violently with this version.
“My mother never spoke about it,” Taras continues. “But my father knew. Everyone knew. And Vasily didn’t stop. He kept pursuing her, kept making her life hell. So my father went to Matvey and asked for permission to leave service and go back to Russia.”
“And Matvey let them go?”
“He didn’t question it. Just gave my parents his blessing. And off they went.” He glances at me. “Eleven months later, I was born.”
“In Russia?”
“Yeah. Moscow. My parents started over, built a new life. But my father never forgot his loyalty to Matvey. When Stefan needed training, needed guidance after his father’s death, my father stepped up. He trained us together when we were eighteen. And in the process, Stefan and I—”
“Became besties?”
He snorts. “Something like that. I was the cool kid who got all the girls, and Stefan was the dorky loner who read too many books and brooded in corners.”
“That I can believe.”
We’re pulling into the harbor now, and I recognize our destination immediately. “That’s The Antonia.”
“She’ll be so pleased you remembered her.” Taras parks but leaves the engine running, then walks around to help me out.
“Does Stefan outsource all his dirty work?” I ask as I take his hand to struggle out of the seat.
“Only the parts he thinks he’ll fuck up.” He closes my door behind me, then offers his elbow. “Which, when it comes to you, is apparently everything.”
I think about spiting him, but on second thought, I kinda need the help with my balance. These heels aren’t exactly boat-shoe practical.
Then I stop short.
The Antonia is transformed.
“Oh my God.”
The yacht is decked out in fairy lights that twinkle like stars against the darkening sky. Flowers—white orchids, obviously—are arranged in elegant clusters along the railings. Candles flicker in hurricane lamps, casting golden shadows across the deck.
“I believe it’s called a ‘grand gesture,’” Taras says dryly.
“I was gonna go with ‘emotional manipulation.’”
“That, too.”
I should turn around, get back in the Lamborghini, and demand Taras take me home. This is too much—the dress, the diamonds, now this floating fantasy. It’s designed to make me forget all the reasons I shouldn’t trust Stefan Safonov with my heart.
But my feet are already moving toward the gangway.
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask Taras when he releases me and stays in place at the foot of the gangway.
“And third-wheel your not-a-date? Pass.” He’s already backing toward the car. “I’ll be at the bar down the street. Text me when you need extraction.” He pauses at the driver’s door. “Olivia?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. Stefan’s trying, in his own fucked-up way. But trying and succeeding are different things.”
“Noted.”
“And if he hurts you, pregnant or not, I’ll kick his ass.”
“I can kick his ass myself, thanks.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He slides into the Lamborghini. “But it never hurts to have backup.”
The engine roars to life, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone on the dock in my Dior dress and borrowed diamonds, staring at a yacht that looks like someone Pinterest-boarded “romantic dinner” and went absolutely feral with the credit card.
I take a breath. Then another.
Then I climb aboard, because I’m exactly the kind of idiot who walks into beautiful traps with her eyes wide open.