Chapter One
Mireille
I’ve been checking the clock every five minutes for the past hour.
It’s ridiculous. I’m acting like I’ve never been on a date before—except I haven’t. Not one that mattered, anyway…and definitely not one with a devilishly handsome, enigmatic man like Dmitri.
Just thinking his name sends a shiver down my spine. Dmitri. He’s older…early thirties, maybe. Mysterious, confident in a way that makes every other man I’ve ever met seem like a boy pretending to be a man.
We’ve been meeting at the park for weeks now, always at the same chess table beneath the elm tree. It started with rematches, then coffee, then conversations that stretched until sunset. He listens when I speak—really listens—and looks at me like I’m saying something worth remembering.
I didn't even know how much I'd been waiting until he finally asked me out. But when he did, my heart nearly stopped.
Now, as I stand in front of the mirror in my tiny dorm room, I’m trying not to overthink every detail.
I’ve changed my outfit three times already before finally settling on a simple, pale blue dress.
Its soft fabric falls to mid-thigh, and the bodice has thin straps that make me feel bold and sexy.
The other night, my roommate described the dress as “innocently dangerous.”
I smooth the dress again and glance at the clock. Six twenty-eight.
He’ll be here any minute.
I reach for my perfume, and my hands tremble slightly.
You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself. It’s just dinner.
But the truth is…it doesn’t feel “just” anything.
A deep rumble outside makes me glance toward the window. When I see the sleek black car pulling up to the curb, my pulse quickens. Even his car looks expensive, the kind of luxury that doesn’t scream for attention but commands it anyway.
I grab my clutch, take one last steadying breath, and head downstairs.
He’s waiting at the entrance of the dorm, dressed in a black shirt, dark slacks, and no tie. His jacket’s cut perfectly to his shoulders, and when his eyes find me, the faintest smile curves his lips.
“Mireille.”
The way he says my name…so smooth and faintly accented, almost like he’s tasting it.
“Hi,” I manage, hoping he can’t tell how fast my heart is racing.
He steps closer, his gaze sweeping over me in a slow, deliberate way that makes my skin warm. “You look beautiful. Like a kukolka,” he adds.
“What’s that?”
“It means ‘little doll,’” he says, his gaze lingering ever so slightly on my lips. “You look like an adorable, perfect little doll.”
I duck my head as my cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “Thank you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
There are people passing by—students heading out, a group laughing near the gate—but Dmitri doesn’t seem to notice them. His attention is fixed entirely on me, like the rest of the world has blurred out of focus.
When he opens the car door for me, I can feel everyone staring. I can almost hear their whispered questions and assumptions. No one ever shows up to Fordham’s campus in a car like that, least of all for me.
I slide into the seat, trying not to fidget. The leather smells faintly like cologne and something warm, masculine. Dmitri closes the door gently, then circles to the driver’s side.
As he starts the car, I finally find my voice. “So…are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“You’ll see,” he says, a small smile playing on his mouth.
He says it so calmly, like he’s used to being trusted. And somehow, I do feel safe with him.
I steal glances as he drives, simply unable to resist. There's something about him—an allure. Maybe it's the way his big hand rests on the wheel, relaxed, sure. Or maybe it’s how every movement he makes feels deliberate, precise.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he says after a while, his tone low.
“I’m…nervous,” I admit. “You’re not exactly easy to read, Dmitri.”
He glances at me then, eyes catching mine for a heartbeat before returning to the road. “That’s because I don’t want to be predictable.”
I laugh softly. “You’re succeeding.”
He looks over again, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Good.”
A comfortable silence settles between us, charged with something I can’t quite name. Actually, he makes me feel a lot of things that I can't define. And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to run from the unknown.
Finally, the car slows and turns into an underground garage of a sleek high-rise. Dmitri steps out of the car and circles around the front to open my door. He holds his hand out to me with a chivalrous smile that does something to my stomach.
I have so many questions, but I slide my hand into his, choosing to trust him fully.
The elevator doors open straight into a penthouse.
My breath catches as we step inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the city, its lights reflecting off the glass.
The place feels quiet and deliberate. No clutter, no softness, just clean lines and shadows that match the man beside me.
“Welcome to my home, moya kukolka,” Dmitri says, making a small sweeping gesture with his hand.
Something twists in my stomach at how nicely the Russian words roll off his tongue.
It's so…sexy.
“Your home? You live here?” I repeat, instantly feeling foolish for asking something so obvious.
He nods once, setting his keys on the counter. “Most of the time.”
I’m still looking around when he adds, “I hope you’re not disappointed we’re not going to a restaurant.”
“Disappointed?” I turn back to him. “You have a penthouse with this view, and you thought I'd prefer a crowded restaurant?”
His mouth curves into one of those fleeting warm smiles that always gives me butterflies. “I don’t like restaurants,” he says, shrugging slightly. “Too much noise, too many eyes. I wanted to talk and actually hear you. So I thought I’d cook instead.”
“You cook?”
He lifts an eyebrow, already loosening the cuffs of his sleeves. “You’ll see.”
My heart skips at the promise in his voice, my stomach knotting with nerves and excitement.
Seems like I'm on a wild ride with Dmitri Balshov.
“Sit.” He gestures toward one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He pours a deep red into a glass and sets it in front of me before turning toward the refrigerator and pulling out some ingredients.
He rolls up his sleeves, sets a large pan on the stove, then lights the burner with one flick of his wrist. There’s something mesmerizing about his movements.
It's almost like watching a hypnotic dance, one that steals your breath away. Along with your soul.
“You're staring, kukolka,” he says without looking away from the herbs he's chopping.
I duck my head. “Maybe a little.”
He glances over his shoulder, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Adorable.”
I smile, feeling my cheeks redden. I continue to watch Dmitri cook, the aroma of his food gradually filling the room. It's warm and rich, luring me deeper into a sense of comfort.
“So tell me,” I say, swirling my wine, “where did you learn to cook like this?”
He doesn’t look up from the pan. “Taught myself. When I got my own place, I decided I wasn't going to be dependent on anyone—not even for a meal.”
“That sounds…very you.”
Something flickers across his face—a hint of a smile. “Control what you can.”
I don’t push. Instead, I watch his hands move with practiced confidence, wondering about the story behind that brief shadow in his eyes.
“What are you making by the way?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the way his forearms flex as he works.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he sets a small piece of roasted pepper on a fork and holds it toward me. “Taste.”
I lean forward and take it. The flavor hits my tongue, smoky and sweet. I close my eyes and moan in delight. Then I open my eyes to meet Dmitri’s heated gaze.
“Well?” he asks. His voice seems to have gone deeper. Husky.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, almost breathlessly.
“Good.”
He continues cooking—some kind of Mediterranean dish with peppers, tomatoes, and herbs over pasta—occasionally offering me bites from the pan. Each time, he watches my reaction with an intensity that makes my pulse flutter. It becomes a game: he feeds me, I react, and his eyes grow darker.
When the food is ready, he comes around the island to sit on the stool beside me. He dishes the food onto one plate and places it between us. “Let's eat,” he says, handing me a fork.
“From the same plate?”
“Yes,” he says simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “I want you close.”
We eat together, trading bites and soft conversation.
I tell him about my classes, about the professor who assigns too much reading and the study group that meets at the campus café.
He listens intently, asking questions that show he’s actually paying attention.
It’s so different from the boys at school who only wait for their turn to talk.
But beneath the easy conversation, there’s a current running between us—something electric that builds with every accidental brush of fingers, every lingering look.
When the last bite of pasta is gone, Dmitri rises and moves to the refrigerator. He returns with two small glass bowls filled with something creamy and topped with a swirl of whipped cream and fresh berries.
"Dessert," he says, but instead of setting one in front of me, he places both bowls to the side and dips his spoon into one.
"Open," he murmurs.
My lips part automatically, and he slides the spoon into my mouth. The taste hits my tongue—rich, creamy, with a hint of vanilla and something citrusy. I close my eyes and let out a soft moan of appreciation.
When I open them again, Dmitri's gaze has darkened.
"Good?" he asks, his voice rougher than before.
"So good," I whisper.