11. Veronica
11
VERONICA
The next day…
“ H ow do you feel?” Elena asks as another stylist comes at me, blow dryer in her hand pointing at me like a gun.
“Like a shootout at high noon. How many hair dryers can one corral need?”
“Nah, the old west didn’t have dresses like that.”
“The bordellos did.”
A massive table sits in one corner of the suite, covered in pristine white linens that probably cost more than a year of my rent.
Right now, though, the main attraction for the stylists is the rack of gowns lined up like the world’s most flamboyant military regiment.
More arms come toward me, brushes, curling irons, and some kind of terrifying contraption that I think might be for contouring. I eye the one approaching with a blowtorch, and I lean away. “Easy there. I’d like to keep my scalp intact, thanks.”
Another stylist, a woman with perfectly arched brows and a no-nonsense attitude, huffs. “You want to look good, you have to cooperate.”
“Cooperate? I didn’t realize ‘engagement party prep’ was code for ‘burn me like a witch.’” I flash her a grin, but she doesn’t even crack a smile. “Tough crowd.”
Elena’s eyes sparkle with amusement as she takes in the chaos. “Making so many friends, I see.”
I gesture dramatically to the gowns. “Oh, absolutely. Me and the glittery death traps are on a first-name basis. This one,” I point to a slinky red mini dress, “is named Murder in Manhattan. And that one over there,” a midnight blue number with a plunging neckline, “is Bury Me in Sequins until I’m dead. With sequins.”
Elena laughs. “The party starts in three hours, and you need to look and sound like a woman madly in love with Maxim. These dresses scream Bratva bitch , trust me.”
I groan, throwing my head back. “ Bratva bitch I can do, but madly in love ? Can’t I just go for mildly tolerant of this insanity ? I feel like that’s at least believable.”
“No,” she says firmly, her eyes still glinting with humor. “Now, let’s go over the story again. How did you and Maxim meet?”
I sit up straight, adopting a deadpan tone. “He abducted me at gunpoint and said, ‘Congratulations, you’re my wife now.’ Very romantic. Then he did me up the butt. Dry. It chafed but then I realized on the end of his cock was an engagement ring. I had to fish it out myself and when I did, it fitted on my finger. Heartwarming tale, right?”
Elena raises an eyebrow. “Try again.”
With a sigh, I try to channel my inner rom-com heroine. “We met at a charity gala. I was there to serve food because I’m scum and he’s mob royalty. He saw me across the room, and it was love at first sight. He swept me off my feet. By unrolling his cock and using it as a broom.”
“Near enough,” Elena replies. “And the proposal?”
“In a dungeon surrounded by his henchmen as he whipped my bare innocent flesh,” I say, then add quickly as she glares at me, “Fine. On a moonlit balcony, he got down on one knee, looked deep into my eyes, and said he couldn’t live without me any longer.”
She nods approvingly. “Perfect. Keep practicing that delivery.”
As the stylists start hacking at my hair, I glance at Elena through the mirror. “You know, I dreamed about him again last night.”
Elena smirks. “The one where he rescues you then pounds you like he’s a steak hammer and you need tenderizing? Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you he’s the one.”
“Or maybe I’m just horny. A month in a coma does things to a gal.”
“Shame Maxim made it pretty clear this is a fake marriage, not a real one.”
“Of course.” I wink with a wicked grin, “Although, if he’s as dominant as he acts, maybe I should test it out by sitting on his face. You know, for research purposes.”
Elena bursts out laughing, nearly doubling over. One of the stylists gasps, looking scandalized, but I just grin wider.
“Veronica, you’ve changed your tune,” Elena manages between laughs.
“I have others. Want to hear my rap remake of Yankee Doodle Dandy?”
“For the love of God, no. Now, let’s get you into a dress before you traumatize these stylists any further.”
“Fine, the red one. But if this thing rips and I flash the whole of New York high society, I’m blaming you.”
Maxim sits beside me in the car, his profile sharp in the low light. He hasn’t said much since we left the mansion, but the weight of his presence is enough to make my nerves dance.
Every time I glance at him, his hand resting casually on his cane, I feel something worryingly close to arousal.
“Good choice of dress,” he says without looking at me, his voice a low rumble. “You look like you belong.”
“Belong where? At a John Wick villain convention?” I shoot back.
His lips twitch, the faintest shadow of a smirk. “Just keep up that sharp tongue. It will help.”
“What exactly do you expect me to do at this party? Fawn over you?”
“Not too much. People will expect me to have chosen an equal for my bride. Have some brains and some spine on show.”
“Hell, my brain is pretty much the only thing not on show in this dress.”
The car pulls up in front of a glittering building in the middle of Manhattan. As we step out, the cold air bites at my bare shoulders, but Maxim’s hand on the small of my back is hot enough to melt any ice.
When we enter the ballroom, it’s like stepping into a movie. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling. The crowd is a sea of expensive suits and couture gowns.
The low hum of polished conversation fills the air. Everything about this place screams money. I feel completely lost.
Then I feel Maxim’s hand tighten slightly on my waist, pulling me closer. “Head up,” he murmurs. “Chest out. They’re already watching.”
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, forcing a cool smile onto my lips. “So let them watch.” I turn and brush my lips against his cheek. “Wonder if I could get you hard with just my words,” I whisper in his ear. “That could be fun, couldn’t it?”
His gaze flickers down to me, but there’s a spark of approval in his eyes. “You’re welcome to give it a try.”
“You want to think about my soft wet lips wrapped around your cock, Maxim?” I lower my voice to a seductive purr. “Swallowing everything you’ve got?”
He growls at me, his eyes flashing darkness. “Well played,” he says. “Now smile and greet your public.”
I can feel every pair of eyes on us. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. People greet Maxim with deference, their smiles polite but their eyes calculating. When they turn their attention to me, their curiosity is palpable.
“Who’s this lovely creature?” a man in a tailored gray suit asks, his gaze lingering on me a moment too long. “You’ve been keeping her a secret, Maxim. What family are you from, dear?”
“A happy one,” I reply. “Mr. Bunn the Baker was my father.”
“Mr. Bunn? I don’t believe I know that name.”
Maxim’s hand tightens on my waist, and his voice cuts through the air like steel. “Veronica Bennett. My fiancée. She has an odd sense of humor, Charles. Veronica, this is the CEO of Sinclair Industries. Charles Sinclair.”
Charles gives me a charming smile as he kisses the back of my hand. “A pleasure, Veronica. You’re quite the catch.”
“I know,” I say sweetly, flashing a grin. Maxim’s hand tightens slightly, and I swear I hear him growling. “Hooked me straight out of the sea, he did.”
“Charles manufactures the weaponry we use,” Maxim adds. “But he was just leaving, wasn’t he?”
Charles backs away at once, fear in his eyes. “Of course. Good evening to you both.”
“Enough with the jokes,” Maxim hisses when he’s gone. “Take this seriously.”
I wink at him. “Two things you need to know about me. I joke when I’m nervous.”
“I gathered that. What’s the second thing?”
“You want these people to think I’m worthy of the great Maxim Stepanov, right? So don’t you think your bride to be would be more than a meek little sparrow?”
He thinks for a moment. “Good point.”
The next to approach is a tall, broad man with sharp features and the kind of air that screams don’t mess with me .
“This is Ivan,” Maxim says. “My second in command.”
Ivan holds a hand out my way. “A pleasure,” he says, holding out his hand. His suit is impeccable, but his tie is slightly loosened, and his piercing gaze darts between us, assessing. “Maxim,” he adds with a curt nod. “So you’re the woman who tamed the beast.”
I smile sweetly, letting the jab roll off me. “Tamed? Oh no, I’m just along for the ride.”
Maxim glares at us. “Let go of her hand, Ivan.”
“She’s quick,” Ivan mutters, half to himself, half to Maxim. “Good luck. You’ll both need it. Victor’s watching this.”
I let his hand go. “Thanks, Ivan.” My gaze flickers playfully to Maxim, earning me a slight twitch of his lips and a squeeze on my hip.
Ivan lets out a low laugh and moves on, leaving me with the strange sense that I’ve survived round one of some unspoken trial.
The next person to join us is an older man, a politician I vaguely recognize from the news. His silver hair is slicked back, and his smile is the kind that’s been practiced in the mirror—warm on the surface but completely hollow underneath.
He clasps Maxim’s hand with the familiarity of someone who owes him favors. “Maxim,” he says, his voice smooth. “Always a pleasure. And this must be your fiancée.” His gaze sweeps over me like he’s filing away every detail for later use.
“That’s right, George,” Maxim replies, his tone neutral but with a faint edge that warns the man to tread carefully. “How’s the campaign?”
“Progressing, thanks to you.”
George offers me a hand, and I take it, his grip clammy and lingering just a second too long. “Veronica,” he says, his voice oily. “You’ve certainly snagged yourself a catch. Maxim’s quite the helper downtown.”
I smile, tilting my head as if I’m pondering his words. “You mean he picks up litter for his community service? What was it, dear, speeding again?”
George’s laugh is patronizing. “What a quick wit you have. Some men would prefer their women to be seen and not heard, of course. The more traditional wife, wouldn’t you say?”
He glances at Maxim whose hand tightens slightly on my waist.
I wave off the veiled insult with an easy grin. “Oh, don’t worry about me. He chains me up in the kitchen at night.” I glance up at Maxim, my eyes sparkling with mischief. “Though sometimes I think it’s just to stop me stealing his cereal.”
Maxim’s lips curve into a small smile, his approval palpable. George nods, clearly unsure what to make of me, and excuses himself with a polite murmur about mingling.
A cold bead of sweat trickle down my spine as a photographer approaches, his camera flashing like a swarm of fireflies. My heart lurches at the thought of Marco seeing these photos, and for a moment, I freeze.
Maxim notices immediately. Without a word, he signals to one of his men, who strides over to the photographer. Within seconds, the camera is confiscated, and the photographer is ushered out, complaining about his fee.
I glance up at Maxim. “Why did you do that?”
He smirks, his gaze flicking down to me. “I notice things.”
“Like what?”
“You don’t want your photo taken. I’m guessing you fear Marco might see the images. I could tell you I want him to know you are under my protection. But I want more for you to relax this evening. So I decided to make your life easier.”
Something about the way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. “Thank you,” I say.
As the night goes on, I start to feel more comfortable—or at least, less like I’m about to vomit. But then Maxim’s possessiveness grows. He becomes visibly tense every time I laugh at someone’s joke or smile at another man.
When I turn to tease him about it, he suddenly pulls me closer, his mouth brushing against my ear. “Keep smiling,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “But remember who you belong to. Stop flirting with these men.”
Before I can respond, he presses a kiss to my neck, just below my ear. It’s quick, but the heat of it lingers, leaving me momentarily stunned.
When I glance around, I notice more than a few people watching us, their expressions ranging from amused to envious.
Maxim’s hand slides back to my waist, and his thumb brushes against the bare skin of my back. It’s such a small gesture, but it sends a ripple of heat racing through me.
“Come with me,” he says. “It’s time we fuck.”