Chapter 23 #3
"When your whole life has been fake smiles and faker promises, honesty feels like oxygen." He pauses. "I know what you're thinking."
Really?
"You see us fighting, you think at least one party isn't giving the right amount of shits." He glances at his girlfriend again. "I have a theory, though. That's her way of showing love. All that brutal honesty. I just know it."
That's not what I was thinking.
"Plus, even if I'm wrong," he continues, "I'm too stupid in love to do anything about it anyway." He shrugs. "You're old money. Must have had your share of fake smiles. Unless you're the waiting-for-betrothal type."
The assumption almost makes me laugh. "No. I don't waste time on people who don't matter."
"Took me thirty years to learn that one." He glances at his girlfriend again. She's examining fabric as if it personally offended her. "Worth it though."
I watch her critique something. Watch him watch her with that expression—half exasperated, half worshipping.
Someone who isn't afraid to call you out on your bullshit. Who doesn't perform. Who's so fucking real it's almost uncomfortable.
I can relate.
His girlfriend emerges from a dressing room and looks at him. "We're leaving. This place is overpriced, even by your ridiculous standards."
He doesn't argue, just grins. "Sure."
She starts walking.
He follows, but right before they hit the door, he stops and looks back. "Name's Marco, by the way." That gambler's smile again. "And I gotta tell you, so far, Chicago’s making a pretty good first impression."
Marco. The name sits wrong. Familiar, but I can't place it. Not from here—he said that much. But from where?
He catches up with his girlfriend. I watch as he leans close and says something low. The line from earlier probably.
Her eyes widen, then her hand flies up, slapping his arm. Hard.
He keeps grinning.
She says something sharp. I can't hear the exact words, but her expression is pure deadpan fury.
Still, she kisses him.
He grins wider. Like he won both bets at once.
The boutique door closes behind them.
Then I get an idea.
I follow Lila into the dressing room.
She's adjusting a dress. Cream colored. Simple. Looks comfortable and elegant at once.
"I'm not interested in more clothing," she says without turning. "Everything you pick is too tight—"
I close the curtain behind me and hook it.
She spins. "Ivan—"
"Need to make sure it fits properly."
The dressing room is small. Intimate. A mirror takes up one wall, her reflection showing me everything—the way her breath catches, the way her pupils dilate even as she tries to look annoyed.
"We're in public."
"Don't care." I step closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. "Besides, I'm buying this place anyway."
Her eyes widen. "What?"
"Need to make sure the fitting rooms meet my standards." My hands find her hips and pull her against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me. "Seems like they need testing."
"You can't just—"
"Can't I?" I turn her toward the mirror to make her watch. "Tell me to stop."
She doesn't.
Her mouth opens, but no protest comes out. Only that sharp inhale when my hands slide under the dress. When I find bare skin.
The adrenaline hits different here. Public space. Strangers just beyond this curtain. The manager a mere five feet away. Anyone could hear. Anyone could know.
That makes it hotter.
"Ivan, someone will hear!"
"Good." I press against her. "Let them know this room is occupied."
I don't take the dress off entirely, pushing it up instead. The half-clothed fantasy is better—that contrast between expensive fabric and skin, between elegant and obscene.
My phone comes out.
She sees it in the mirror. "What are you—"
I dial with one hand. The other stays on her hip, holding her in place. Then I'm inside her, and her reflection reveals everything—eyes going wide, mouth falling open, that moment of surrender.
"This is Petrov." My voice stays level even as I start moving. "The boutique on Oak Street. I want to purchase it. Today."
Her hand flies to her mouth, trying to stay quiet. I pull it away and pin both her wrists against the mirror.
"Yes, immediately." Another thrust. Deeper. Her reflection shows the struggle—trying to stay silent, trying to stay composed, failing at both. "Transfer the funds within the hour."
Watching her in the mirror while talking business does a number on me. That juxtaposition. The professional voice, while I'm buried inside her. The way she's battling not to make a sound.
"I'll have my lawyer handle paperwork." I pause, making her wait. Watching her expression in the glass—desperate, needy, perfect. Then I move. Hard. Her gasp is audible. "Make it happen."
I hang up and toss the phone aside.
"Private property now," I murmur against her neck. My hand wraps around her throat. Not squeezing but holding. Reminding her who's in control. "We can do this whenever we want."
She laughs. Breathless. Disbelieving. "You're insane."
"You chose this." I move harder, taking in every microexpression in the mirror. "You chose me. This is what that means."
This is what it means to be mine. To have me buy entire buildings so I can fuck her in them without caring who knows.
She tries to cover her mouth again. I won't let her.
"Don't hide." My grip tightens slightly on her throat. "I want to hear you. Want everyone to know."
The knock makes her freeze.
"Is everything alright in there?" The manager's voice. Professional. Concerned.
I keep moving. Slow now. Torturous. Watching Lila's face as she tries to form words.
"I'm—" Her voice cracks. She swallows. Tries again. "Yes. I'm fine."
"The dress?" The manager sounds hopeful, likely still calculating commission.
I thrust. It’s not hard enough to make her scream, but enough that her breath catches audibly.
"It's—" She looks at me in the mirror, caught between fury and surrender. "It's perfect. Everything's perfect. I feel fucking perfect."
"Wonderful! Take all the time you need."
Footsteps retreat.
The second she's gone, I almost laugh. Almost open that curtain and show the manager what "take all the time you need" really means. Show everyone that we're not some polite couple shopping—we're something rawer than that.
But that would be fucking stupid.
So I keep it here. Keep it ours.
When we finish, she's trembling. Legs barely holding her up. I pull out carefully. Hold her steady.
I kiss her neck. Her jaw. The spot behind her ear that makes her shiver.
She's quiet. Too quiet.
I turn her to face me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." But her eyes are distant.
I wait, giving her space to speak.
She adjusts the dress, smoothing it down, then fixes her hair in the mirror. The post-sex ritual makes her presentable again.
"We'll need perfume," she says finally, not quite meeting my eyes. "After... that."
I almost laugh. "I'll buy you whatever you want."
"No." She turns and looks at me properly now. "I miss my perfume. The one I always wore."
"Buy it again."
"It's not that simple." Her voice goes soft. "It was specific. Jasmine and amber. My grandmother's."
The longing in her expression makes me pay attention. Really pay attention.
"She raised you?"
"For a while. Before she died." Lila touches her neck where perfume would go. "That scent was hers first. I kept buying it after because... I don't know. It felt like keeping her close."
The vulnerability in that admission does hits me right in the chest. Family. Lost family. I understand that more than she knows.
"We'll find it," I tell her. It’s not a maybe but a certainty.
"Promise?"
"Promise." My hand cups her face. She leans in, just slightly, and I let her. "Get dressed. We’re not finished yet."
She rolls her eyes. "More shopping?"
"No." I kiss her. Fast. Sharp. "Tonight, I’m taking you on a date. A proper one."
Her eyes widen. That little spark in them is addictive. "A date?"
"Yes. Dinner. Somewhere worth showing off one of these dresses. Me trying not to lose my mind while you sit across from me."
She smiles. Real. Unpracticed. Unfiltered. "That sounds perfect."
I straighten my tie and adjust my jacket.
"Good. Now pick out more clothes. Daylight's running, money's burning."
Her laugh cuts through the boutique like a bell. God, I'd listen to it for hours.
I pull back the curtain and let her pass first, watching her glide past racks and mirrors, brushing against silk, soaking in attention she doesn't even realize she commands. I follow.
The manager spots me immediately.
Her expression shifts. Professional smile frozen in place, but her eyes tell the story—she knows. Of course, she knows. The timing. The sounds. The way Lila's hair is slightly mussed despite her attempts to fix it.
She opens her mouth, probably to say something diplomatic. Something that maintains the illusion of plausible deniability.
I wave casually, unbothered.
Her mouth closes. She nods once and returns to arranging dresses as if nothing had happened.
Smart woman.
Lila hasn't noticed the exchange. She’s too busy examining fabric options, running her fingers over silk like it's the first time she's touched anything this expensive.
The manager waits with more options. More fabrics. More power to give her. More ways to mold her into the world she's about to step into.
Mrs. Petrov. The thought hits harder than any empire I've claimed. My woman. My choice. My future.
She doesn't know yet—none of this will matter to her except the dresses, the shoes, the thrill of a new life. But I do. Every rack, every stitch, every glance she throws over her shoulder—it's all mine. And I don't plan on letting go.