Chapter 23
IVAN
I wake up to sunlight.
Real sunlight, not the filtered pre-dawn gray I usually see.
But it’s quiet. Too quiet.
I turn, half-expecting the reason for that rare peace to still be tangled in the sheets beside me. Instead, there’s an empty bed.
My hand shoots out, meeting cold silk where warm skin should be. The panic hits before logic does.
She left.
No. She wouldn't. Not after last night. She loves me.
I'm up and moving, my bare feet meeting cold marble. No clothes.
The penthouse is too quiet. No coffee smell. No shower running. No Lila, humming off-key the way she does when she thinks no one's listening.
The living room is empty. The kitchen untouched. My office door remains closed.
Circling back, I see it—light spilling from the walk-in closet. The one I never use because who gives a shit about clothes when you have people who worry about that for you.
I move toward it silently, even though my heart kicks hard in my chest.
She's inside, standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a white towel. Her wet hair tumbles down her back, her skin still pink from the shower. She’s staring at the racks of clothes like they're a problem she can't solve.
The relief is physical. My knees go weak for a second before I can lock it down.
"Good morning, little dove."
She turns fast, catches me in the doorway, and her eyes drop. Blush heats her cheeks. "Oh God. Already?"
I look down. My morning wood has turned into seeing-her-half-naked wood. I can't hide it when I’m not wearing anything.
"Didn't notice." I step into the closet. The lie is obvious, but I commit to it anyway.
Her blush deepens. "You're impossible."
"You're the one standing there in a towel." I lean against the doorframe. "What's wrong?"
She gestures at the racks. "All of this. It's all the same."
"What do you mean?"
"These." She pulls out a shirt. Oversized. Gray. Generic. Pulls out another. Black this time, but an identical cut. "Every single thing here is a baggy t-shirt. Who picked these? Did you tell someone, 'Buy shirts,' and they bought the same one in every color?"
I almost smile. "Pyotr doesn't believe in fashion."
"And the other side?" She moves to the right wall where suits hang in perfect lines. Charcoal, navy, black. "Just men's clothing. So you keep a whole wardrobe for every Bratva soldier who visits?"
I walk closer and touch one of the suits. The fabric is familiar under my fingers. "I don't know. These are probably mine."
"You don't even know what's in your own closet?"
"Never paid attention." I watch her sort through hangers, looking for something. "It's just clothes."
"Just clothes," she mutters. "Says the man who wears thousand-dollar suits."
"Ten thousand. If we're being accurate."
She stops and turns to look at me. "You're not helping your case."
But then she finds it—buried in the back between the baggy shirts. One of her old shirts from the duffel bag I packed. Faded blue, probably from Target, the hem frayed.
She pulls it out like treasure, smiling. "Finally!"
I stand, arms crossed, watching this girl who slept in silk sheets, ate breakfast served by my staff, and is now losing her mind over a Target special.
If I gave her a silk blouse, she’d probably ask if it came in blue cotton.
"Privacy?" she says, glancing up.
The request makes me laugh. "Seriously? There's nothing down there I haven't seen."
"Ivan—"
"And touched. And tasted. And—"
"You're awful." But she's smiling when she drops the towel.
The sight punches through me. Water droplets still clinging to her shoulders. The curve of her hips. The marks I left on her thighs last night.
My cock goes from interested to demanding. I lean against the wall because standing requires more focus than I have available.
She turns, catching me watching. "Now you're really awful."
"You're the one dating a Bratva lord."
She pulls the shirt over her head. It falls to mid-thigh, too big but better than the towel. "Dating now? Are we?"
"Maybe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
She finds underwear—cotton, white, practical—and slides them on under the shirt. The movement makes the fabric ride up, and I see that mark on her hip again. The one from my teeth.
Mine.
She's reaching for jeans when I close the distance between us. My hands find the hem of her shirt.
"What are you—" But I'm already pulling her top up and over her head, dropping it on the floor.
Her face goes red again. "What the fuck, Ivan?"
"You won't need these anymore."
"I—what?"
I reach around to unclasp her bra. The white cotton that matches her underwear. I let it fall.
"Seriously?" Her voice goes high. "Right now?"
"We're going shopping."
"I have clothes."
"You have rags from your old life." My fingers trail her collarbone to her throat, feeling her pulse jump. "My woman doesn't wear Target clearance."
"There's nothing wrong with Target!"
"There is when you're going to be Mrs. Petrov.
" I step closer, and she backs into the mirror, now trapped between glass and me.
"You'll have enemies. Rivals. Women who've been waiting their whole lives for the position you claimed. They'll judge everything—what you wear, how you carry yourself, whether your shoes are last season or custom-made. Designer’s not vanity—it’s armor. "
She exhales. "That’s insane."
"Welcome to the insane."
I kiss her. "Get dressed. We build you a new version of yourself, or they’ll build one for you."
She studies me for a moment. "Isn't this the part where I'm supposed to be happy? Girl dates rich guy, gets taken shopping, lives the dream?"
"Most girls do."
"I'm not most girls."
"I know." I smile. "That's why I picked you."
She crosses her arms over her chest, self-conscious now that she's standing here mostly naked. "What if I like my old clothes?"
"Then we'll buy you new versions. Better fabric. Better fit. Same style if that's what you want." I pull her hands away to keep her from hiding. "But you're not wearing five-dollar shirts anymore. Not when you're mine."
I step back, forcing myself back into the moment.
"I still have a dress around somewhere,” I continue. “Came with the penthouse. The previous owner's wife left her entire wardrobe. Maybe it’ll fit."
"How do you even know that?"
"Pyotr mentioned it. Said women's clothes were gathering dust in storage."
She laughs. "You're taking me shopping in a stranger's dress?"
"Unless you want to go naked." I let my eyes travel down her body.
"You're ridiculous."
"I prefer the word ‘enticing.’" I step toward the door, letting my gaze linger. "Five minutes. Don’t make me come back and dress you myself."
She tightens the towel around herself.
"I highly suggest you use them wisely," I add, voice low, letting the warning—and the tease—settle in before I disappear.
The dress is red.
Not simply red, but statement red. The kind of red that doesn’t ask for attention; it demands it. It’s sleek, cut within an inch of decency, and expensive enough to make an accountant cry.
Lila eyes it like it’s radioactive.
"I can’t wear this."
"You can," I tell her. "You just haven’t yet."
She hesitates, fingers brushing the fabric as if it might burn her. "Everyone will stare."
"That’s the point."
Her eyes flick up to meet mine. "You actually want people staring at me?"
"I want them to understand who they’re looking at."
She mutters something under her breath but steps into the dress. The zipper sticks halfway up, so I move behind her. My fingers trail her spine as I tug it closed. She exhales sharply.
The mirror does the rest. The girl who used to pour coffee in diner uniforms is gone; in her place stands someone who could command the room with a glance.
"I look ridiculous," she whispers.
"You look like you belong in the room," I correct.
She studies herself in the mirror, tugging at the hem. "No… I look fake. Like the plastic women you said you didn’t want."
I step closer, my hand brushing lightly along her hip, grounding her. "Hey." My voice is soft, patient, but steady. "Look at me."
She lifts her eyes, uncertain, and I catch the flash of doubt.
"Out there? Sure. Fancy dresses, flawless hair, smiles on cue—people believe what they see. That’s their game.
" I let my thumb trace a light line along her side.
"But in here?" I pause, letting it sink in, making sure she hears every syllable.
"None of that matters. I don’t care about perfect. "
Her shoulders relax slightly.
"I care about you—the Lila who spills coffee on Bratva bosses and laughs when she’s caught off guard. That’s the Lila I want. That’s the one I’ve always wanted."
She studies herself, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Really?"
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "Really. Out there, play the part if you must. In here… be yourself. That’s all I need."
She exhales, tension softening. "Even if I look ridiculous?"
"Especially then," I murmur. "Because you’re mine. All of it. Not the world’s idea of perfect. Just you."
Oak Street. Old money shopping. A place where they don't put price tags on anything because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
Misha drives and doesn't speak. He knows better than to interrupt when I'm in this mood—the one where my brain splits between business and her. Between empire and emotion.
We pull up to the curb. Gold awning. Marble steps. Designed to intimidate.
Lila looks at the building. "This is a store?"
"Boutique."
"What's the difference?"
"About ten thousand dollars per item."
She makes a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite panic. "Ivan—"
"Out of the car." I'm already opening her door and offering my hand. "Don't make me carry you."
She takes my hand and steps onto the sidewalk in those borrowed heels that are half a size too big. She wobbles slightly.
I steady her, my hand finding her lower back. Possessive. Clear.