Chapter 23 #2
At that exact moment, I see him: a uniformed cop. He’s standing at the corner, radio on his belt, gun visible. He’s young and likely hasn't learned yet that this street belongs to people who own police commissioners.
My heart skips. Then races.
This is her moment. Her true test of loyalty.
If she still sees me as the monster who took her, as the kidnapper, instead of the lover, she could run. It’s fifty feet at most to that cop. All she’d have to do is tell him she was held against her will. That she's been missing. That I'm dangerous.
She'd be right about all of it.
They'd arrest me. Here. On Oak Street, where everyone would see. The Pakhan taken down by a girl in a red dress and a rookie cop who wouldn't understand what he'd done.
The empire would fracture. Dmitri would move in. My men would scatter. Everything my father built would crumble because I chose her over sense.
I wait.
My hand stays on her back. Light. Not holding. Not forcing. Just present.
She could walk away.
I wouldn’t stop her. I couldn’t. Not here. Not with witnesses and flashing badges.
But she doesn’t. She doesn’t even look at the cop—just keeps close, hip brushing mine as we pass him.
The relief hits like a punch.
"Good girl," I murmur, low enough only she can hear. "You made your choice."
She tilts her head up, eyes narrowing a little. "What choice?"
"The cop," I say, keeping my tone even. "You saw him."
"Hard to miss a uniform."
"And yet," I say, leaning in, "you stayed."
"Where else would I go?"
Inside smells like leather and money. Perfume layers under it—probably the hundreds of bottles opened and tested by women whose receipts regularly exceed six figures.
The manager appears immediately, a blonde, sharp, forty-something. Expensive suit, polished heels—the whole aesthetic. Her smile is professional, but I can see the calculation behind it. She’s already measuring potential sales, tallying commissions.
"Mr. Petrov." She extends her hand and doesn’t wait for me to respond. "We’ve prepared a selection as requested."
"Show her everything."
"Everything?" Lila’s voice shoots higher than normal. "Ivan, that’s—"
"Crazy?" I supply, turning on her with a faint smirk. "Yes. And yes. That’s why it works."
I glance back at the manager. "Whatever she doesn’t choose," I add, "goes to women’s shelters. Make sure they know it’s from the future Mrs. Petrov."
The manager blinks, just a fraction, before composing herself. "Of course. We’ll arrange the donation immediately."
Lila stares at me, wide-eyed. I can feel her trying to reconcile the image of a man like me doling out designer labels to survivors of abuse. She doesn’t get it yet. Doesn’t see that power is about choosing your contradictions, making the impossible fit together.
"This way," the manager says, leading us deeper into the store. We pass racks of silk and leather. Pass mannequins dressed in pieces worth more than cars.
Lila's hand finds mine and squeezes.
I squeeze back in a wordless ‘You're safe.’
The dressing area is private, curtained off with mirrors everywhere. A velvet couch where I can sit and watch. A table with champagne already poured.
The manager starts pulling dresses. "These just arrived from Milan. And these are from the Paris runway. This one—" She holds up a black, backless piece. "This was custom-made for a Russian countess, but she canceled the order. It should fit perfectly."
Lila touches the fabric. Her fingers hesitate. "How much is this?"
"Don't ask that question here." I settle onto the couch. "Try it on."
"But—"
"Try it on."
She disappears behind the curtain. The manager hovers, eager to help. More so eager to secure a sale.
"Give us space," I tell her.
"Of course." She backs away. "I'll be just outside if you need anything."
Finally, I’m alone. Just me, the champagne I won't drink, and the sound of fabric rustling behind curtains.
"It won't zip," Lila calls out a moment later.
"Need help?"
"No. Yes. Maybe." A pause. "This is harder than it looks."
I smile and move toward the curtain. "I'm coming in."
"Wait—"
It’s too late. I'm already pushing through.
She’s half-dressed in black silk, the fabric twisted around her back. She’s wrestling with the zipper, muttering under her breath, irritation etched across her face.
"Here," I say, stepping in. I find the zipper and pull it up slowly. My knuckles graze her spine, and she shivers.
The dress molds to her perfectly.
With the dress in place, she studies herself in the mirror quietly. "This isn’t me."
I take a step closer. "It is tonight."
She frowns. "I don’t know how to be this person."
"Lila, you will." I rest my hands lightly on her shoulders, meeting her gaze in the glass. "You watch. You learn. You fake it until it feels real."
"Is that what you did?"
The question lands deeper than she knows. "Yeah," I say after a beat. "Every day since my father died."
She turns slightly, eyes searching mine in the reflection. "Do you miss him?"
"Sometimes." I let out a breath. "Mostly, I miss the certainty. He always knew what move came next." My fingers trace the strap on her shoulder. "Me? I’m improvising."
"You don’t seem like you are."
I smirk faintly. "That’s the trick. Confidence isn’t truth—it’s camouflage."
She leans back against me, just enough that I can feel her weight. Trust, small but real. "I see you doubt," she whispers.
"I know."
"Doesn’t that scare you?"
"Every damn day." I press a kiss to her temple, then nod toward the racks. "Now go find another dress before I start improvising something else entirely."
The manager brings ten more. Then twenty. Colors and cuts and fabrics that blur together. Lila tries them all, emerging from the curtain in each one looking more uncertain than the last.
Finally, she leaves the dressing room in something blue. The color accentuates her eyes. She’s utterly captivating.
She catches me staring, smiles slightly, then disappears back inside.
I settle onto the couch and check my phone. Emails from captains I'm ignoring. Messages about territory. Disputes I'll deal with later. None of it matters right now.
The manager hovers nearby. "Is there anything else—"
"Privacy," I tell her.
Voices drift in from the main floor. Another couple.
I glance at my watch. The boutique should be ours for another thirty minutes, but these places sometimes double-book when the first client runs long.
The manager appears, flustered. "Mr. Petrov, I apologize—they had an appointment, and I thought you'd be finished—"
The woman's voice cuts through. Flat. Deadpan. "It's awful."
"Awful? Come on, tell me how you really feel—"
"Objectively awful. Look at it—too tight, makes me look like a Disney princess."
The man laughs. "Honestly? I can’t argue with that."
I stand and walk toward the sound, ready to have them removed. This is supposed to be a private experience.
But when I round the corner, I see them—a blonde in casual luxury, the man in a suit that fits too well to be off-the-rack. Old money. Have to be. They're standing in front of mirrors. He’s holding a shirt, and she systematically destroys every choice he makes.
Most people here keep their disagreements private. Smile for the staff. Maintain appearances. These two don't seem to care who hears them.
Lila steps out of her dressing room, sees me watching strangers, and raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head.
She goes back inside.
The man says something I can't hear. The woman responds with another deadpan assessment. He grins like she just told him he's perfect.
Strange dynamic.
Lila's voice comes from the dressing room. "This one also won't zip."
"Need help?" I move toward the curtain.
"No, I can—wait, actually yes. The zipper is impossible this time."
I step inside. She's twisted around, arms behind her back, trying to reach. The dress is stuck halfway.
"Here." I find the zipper and slide it up. Slow.
"Thanks," she says, breathless.
I lean close. My lips hover near her ear. "You know, I could lock the door. Take you right here against that mirror."
Her face flushes red. "Ivan—"
"No one would stop us."
"There are people—"
"I don't care about people." My hands find her hips. "I care about you in this dress."
She sighs. Half protest, half want.
I step back to give her space. "Think about it. You’ll love it."
I leave the dressing room, letting her compose herself.
And find the man standing right next to me. No warning. Just suddenly there. Too close. Breaking unspoken rules about personal space.
"Hey there." His tone is casual. Friendly. Completely uninvited. “Nice little place here, huh?”
I study him, younger than I thought from a distance. Early thirties. Expensive suit that fits too perfectly—the kind of fit that comes from wearing them since childhood. Old money accustomed to expensive fabric.
Small talk. I don't want or need a stranger inserting himself into my afternoon or our private space.
"Chances are," he continues, because apparently he doesn't understand social cues, "I'm either getting the most memorable shopping trip ever or getting slapped. Maybe both." He pauses. "Sorry. Gambler's mouth. Forgets boundaries sometimes."
Talkative. This guy's strangely talkative.
"People here don't usually admit to gambling," I say, testing.
"Yeah, well, one of the things I learned a while back was to stop giving a shit what people think." He glances at the woman. "Though lately I've been questioning that rule. Giving a shit about at least one person seems important. You know?"
I don't respond. Most people fill silence. They can't help themselves. Nerves always kick in.
He does. "Recent development. Very recent. Turns out, having someone who doesn't blow smoke up your ass is refreshing."
"Is that your wife?" I ask. He's not leaving. I might as well direct this conversation somewhere.
"Girlfriend." His smile turns genuine. "She tells me when my shirts are objectively bad. When my ideas are stupid. When I'm being an idiot. It's... nice."
"Nice."