Chapter 7 - Kirsten
The numbers on my screen are seared into my brain, but I couldn’t tell you what they mean.
That’s the curse of a photographic memory. I remember everything I see. Every digit, every decimal point, every cell in this spreadsheet. But remembering and understanding are two different things, and right now my brain refuses to do the latter.
Because Menlow is sitting twelve feet away, and apparently that’s enough to turn me into a complete idiot.
He’s on a call, speaking in a low voice about quarterly projections. I should be using this time productively. Instead, I’m watching the way he leans back in his chair with the phone pressed to his ear. One hand spins a pen between his fingers. He does that when he’s thinking.
I’ve noticed a lot of things about him over the past few days. The way he loosens his tie around three o’clock. How he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one’s looking. The furrow between his brows when he reads something that doesn’t add up.
I hate that I notice these things.
He’s a criminal, I remind myself. He forced you into marriage. He’s holding your life hostage.
All true. All completely valid reasons to despise him.
So why do I keep stealing glances like some lovesick teenager?
Menlow ends his call and sets the phone down. “Everything all right?”
I jerk my attention back to my screen. “Fine. Just reviewing the Henderson account.”
“You’ve been on that page for ten minutes.”
Damn him. “It’s a complicated account.”
“It’s a straightforward vendor contract.” He sounds amused. “But take your time.”
I grit my teeth and force myself to actually process the document. The data is already stored in my head—I just need to make sense of it. But every time I try to focus, my thoughts drift back to him.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s affecting me.
Because he is affecting me. That’s the infuriating part.
I came into this arrangement fully prepared to hate him. And I do hate him. I hate what he did, how he did it, and the impossible situation he’s put me in.
But the more time I spend in this office, the harder it becomes to see him as a one-dimensional villain.
He works harder than anyone I’ve ever met. He arrives before me every morning and stays later every night. When employees come to him with problems, he listens. Actually listens. He remembers names. Asks follow-up questions. Treats the janitor with the same respect he shows the department heads.
Yesterday, a woman from accounting came in near tears. Something about a scheduling conflict with her daughter’s surgery and a project deadline. I expected Menlow to tell her to figure it out, the way every other boss I’ve had would have.
Instead, he rearranged the entire project timeline, reassigned her tasks to other team members, and told her to take as much time as she needed.
“Family comes first,” he said. “The project can wait.”
The woman left his office looking stunned. I felt pretty stunned myself.
And then there was last week. I overheard him on the phone with someone from legal. They were discussing a contract dispute, and instead of pushing for the most aggressive option, he chose the fairest option for both parties.
“We’re not in the business of destroying people,” he explained. “Find a solution that works for everyone.”
Not exactly what I expected from a Bratva boss.
I’ve also been doing my own digging. Quietly, of course. I’ve used my access to company files to piece together the bigger picture.
What I’ve found surprises me.
This company is legitimate. Actually, genuinely legitimate. The books are clean. The operations are above board. No hidden money laundering, no suspicious transactions, and no shell companies funneling cash to offshore accounts.
I would know. I’ve looked. Every document I’ve reviewed is permanently etched in my memory. I can cross-reference figures from reports I read three days ago without pulling them up again. If there were discrepancies, I would have found them by now.
There’s nothing here. Whatever Menlow’s family does in the shadows, it doesn’t touch this business. He’s built something real. Something honest.
It doesn’t change what he did to me. But it complicates my mental image of him as a monster.
“Kirsten.”
I look up. He’s watching me with those ice-blue eyes, the same way he has been for a week now.
“You’ve been staring at that screen without scrolling for five minutes,” he points out. “Either you’ve developed the ability to analyze data telepathically, or something’s on your mind.”
“Nothing’s on my mind.”
“Liar.”
“Excuse me?”
He sets down his pen. “You’re distracted. You have been all day. If something is bothering you, I’d rather you tell me than let it affect your work.”
The audacity of this man. “Maybe what’s bothering me is being forced into a marriage I didn’t want and having to sit in an office with my so-called husband pretending everything is normal.”
“Fair point.” He doesn’t seem offended. “But I don’t think that’s it. You’ve been handling that situation remarkably well.”
“Have I?”
“You have. You’re angry, but you’re professional. You do your job, keep your head down, and don’t let your personal feelings interfere with your performance.” He tilts his head. “So what’s different today?”
I don’t have an answer. Or rather, I have one, but I’d rather die than say it out loud.
The truth is, I’m distracted because of him. Because the more time I spend with him, the harder it becomes to maintain my fury. Because I’m starting to see him as a person instead of a villain.
And that terrifies me.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
It’s not entirely a lie. The guest bed is comfortable enough, but my brain refuses to shut off. I lie awake for hours replaying conversations, analyzing every interaction, and trying to figure out what game he’s playing.
Menlow nods. “I can have a different mattress delivered if the current one isn’t working.”
“The mattress is fine.”
“Then what’s keeping you up?”
You, I think. This whole insane situation. The fact that I’m married to a stranger who’s somehow both my captor and my protector.
“Nothing.” I turn back to my screen. “Can we please just get back to work?”
He studies me a moment longer, then returns to his laptop. “As you wish.”
The rest of the day passes in silence. I manage to focus by refusing to look in his direction. By five-thirty, I’ve cleared my inbox and reviewed every file on my desk.
“I’m heading out.” I gather my things.
“I’ll be another hour. Marcus will drive you home.”
Marcus is one of the bodyguards. He’s quiet, has kind eyes, and hands the size of dinner plates. I’ve gotten used to his presence over the past week, even if needing a bodyguard still feels surreal.
The drive to the penthouse takes twenty minutes. I spend it staring out the window, watching the city roll past. When we arrive, Marcus walks me to the private elevator and waits until the doors close.
The penthouse is quiet and empty. Menlow won’t be back for at least an hour.
I should enjoy this. I could take a long bath, read a book, and decompress.
Instead, I pace. I wander from room to room, unable to settle. The guest bedroom feels too small. The living room feels too big. Everything about this place reminds me that I don’t belong here.
I find myself in the kitchen, opening cabinets I’ve never explored. The pantry is stocked with things I’ve never heard of. Imported crackers. Fancy oils. A collection of teas that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget used to be.
My monthly grocery budget. Past tense. Because I don’t have a budget anymore. I don’t have bills or rent or any of the normal concerns that used to define my life.
I close the cabinet and move to the windows instead. The sun is sinking below the skyline, painting the clouds in shades of orange and pink. It really is a beautiful view.
I hate that I’m starting to appreciate it.
The elevator doors open behind me.
Menlow is home early.
I don’t turn around as his footsteps approach. Don’t acknowledge him even when he stops a few feet behind me.
“Beautiful view,” he comments.
“I suppose.”
“You suppose?” There’s amusement in his voice. “Most people would kill for this view.”
“Most people aren’t being held here against their will.”
“You’re not being held against your will. You’re free to leave whenever you want.”
I spin to face him. “And go where? Back to my apartment, where your enemies might kick down the door? That’s not freedom. That’s a different kind of prison.”
“I understand your frustration—”
“Do you?” I step toward him. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve taken everything from me. My job. My home. My independence. You’ve turned my entire life upside down, and you expect me to just accept it because you claim you’re protecting me.”
He lets me finish. When I’m done, he simply nods.
“You’re right. I’ve asked a lot of you. More than I had any right to ask.”
That takes the wind out of my sails. I expected him to argue. Defend himself. Remind me why his actions were justified.
I didn’t expect him to agree.
“This Saturday,” he continues, “my family is having a gathering. My siblings, my cousins, their families. I’d like you to come.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“A gathering. At my cousin Konstantin’s estate. It’s a monthly thing. Nothing formal.”
“I’m not your family.”
“You’re my wife.”
“On paper. We signed a marriage license. There was no ceremony, no vows, no—”
“Paper is enough.” He moves past me to the bar and pours himself a drink. “If you’re introduced to them—if they know you’re under my protection—it expands your safety net. Even when I’m not around, you’ll have the entire Karpov family watching out for you.”
“I don’t need the entire Karpov family watching out for me.”
“You do, actually.” He turns back to face me. “The Volkovs aren’t going to forget what I did. They’ll retaliate eventually. When they do, I want you surrounded by people who will protect you with their lives.”
“People I’ve never met.”
“That’s why you’ll meet on Saturday.” He takes a sip. “Unless you’d prefer to remain vulnerable.”
It’s manipulation. Plain and simple. He knows exactly which buttons to push.
The worst part? It’s working.
“I don’t have anything to wear to something like that,” I point out.
Menlow’s mouth curves. “Is that your only objection?”
“It’s a valid objection. I can’t show up to meet your Bratva family in a Target dress and clearance rack heels.”
“You could show up in a potato sack and still be the most interesting person in the room.”
I ignore the warmth that spreads through me at his words. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is…” I trail off. What is the point? That I don’t want to go? That I’m scared of meeting his family? That I’m terrified of being pulled deeper into his world?
All true. But none of it feels like reason enough to refuse.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “I’ll go. But I meant what I said about having nothing to wear.”
“Leave that to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll take care of it.” He sets down his glass. “My sisters will come by tomorrow with options.”
“Your sisters are going to dress me?”
“They’re going to help you find something appropriate. Anya and Kristina have impeccable taste.” A glint appears in his eyes. “They’ve also been dying to meet you. Think of it as a bonding experience.”
“I don’t want to bond with your sisters.”
“Too bad. They want to bond with you.” He picks up his glass again. “Fair warning: they’ve been asking about you since I told them about the marriage. Prepare for an interrogation.”
“Wonderful. Anything else I should know?”
“They can be a bit… enthusiastic.”
“Enthusiastic how?”
He just smiles. “You’ll see. They’re harmless. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Another smile. He takes a sip of his drink and doesn’t elaborate.
“This is going to be a disaster,” I mutter.
“It’s going to be fine. You’ll pick out a dress, make small talk, and charm everyone without even trying.”
“You have a lot of faith in someone who’s made it very clear she hates you.”
“You don’t hate me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.” He sets down the glass and closes some of the distance between us. “You hate what I did. You hate this situation. But you don’t hate me. If you did, you wouldn’t have spent half the day sneaking glances when you thought I wasn’t looking.”
My face burns. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His voice drops. “It’s all right. I’ve been doing the same thing.”
I don’t know what to say. Don’t know what to do with the flutter in my chest or the way my pulse quickens.
“I’m going to my room,” I manage.
“Kirsten.”
I pause at the hallway. “What?”
“Thank you. For agreeing to this.”
I don’t know how to respond. Thank you implies I’m doing him a favor. I’m not. I’m doing this because he’s right. I need protection, and meeting his family is the smartest way to get it.
But something in his voice sounds genuine. Almost grateful.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I tell him. “Your sisters might hate me.”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually.” He holds my gaze. “You’re impossible not to like.”
I turn away before he can see the flush creeping up my neck.
“Goodnight, Menlow.”
“Goodnight, Kirsten.”
I make it to my room and close the door behind me, leaning against it.
Saturday. Family gathering. Meeting the extended Karpov clan, including the notorious Konstantin.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?