Chapter 10 – Maxim
Cassandra burst into my office without knocking, tablet clutched in her hand like a weapon. Her usually perfect composure was cracked around the edges, which meant whatever she was about to show me was going to ruin my fucking day.
“You need to see this,” she said, slamming the device down on my desk.
The video was already playing. William Beaumont stood behind a podium at what looked like a hastily arranged press conference, his face a masterpiece of paternal anguish. Designer suit, perfectly styled hair, the kind of controlled emotion that played well on camera.
“My daughter Eleanor is a victim,” he was saying, his voice thick with manufactured grief. “She’s been brainwashed, isolated from her family and friends by a dangerous criminal who has somehow convinced her to participate in this sham marriage.”
My jaw clenched as I watched him perform, every gesture calculated for maximum sympathy.
“The ceremony that took place was illegal, conducted without proper documentation or witnesses. Eleanor was coerced, possibly drugged. This man has taken my little girl and turned her against everything she was raised to believe.”
Little girl. The fucking bastard hadn’t called Eleanor in three months before I took her, had publicly disowned her when it served his purposes. Now she was his little girl.
“I’m offering a five-million-dollar reward to anyone who can provide information leading to Eleanor’s safe return,” William continued. “My daughter needs help, and I won’t rest until she’s back where she belongs.”
The video ended, and I stared at the blank screen, fury building in my chest like a wildfire.
“When was this?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes ago. It’s already trending on social media. #SaveEleanor is the number one hashtag in Chicago.”
I pushed back from my desk, needing to move before I put my fist through something expensive. “Son of a bitch.”
“It gets worse,” Cassandra said. “He’s got a team of lawyers claiming the marriage is invalid due to coercion. They’re filing for an emergency injunction to have it annulled.”
“Let them try. The paperwork is solid.”
“Legal won’t matter if public opinion turns against you. William’s playing the grieving father card perfectly. Eleanor looks like a victim, and you look like the monster who stole her.”
The office door opened, and Lev walked in, followed by Anya. Both of their faces told me they’d seen the news.
“Fucking genius move,” Lev said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Make the girl look like a brainwashed cult victim. Now half of Chicago thinks you’re some kind of predator.”
“The other half thinks it’s romantic,” Anya added. “Social media is split between people demanding Eleanor’s rescue and people defending your epic love story.”
“What does Eleanor think?” I asked.
Anya’s expression darkened. “She locked herself in her office. Won’t talk to anyone.”
I was already moving toward the door when Cassandra called after me.
“Maxim. We need a response. Something public, something that shows Eleanor chose this freely.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Eleanor’s office door was locked, but I had keys to every room in my house. I used them.
She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest. Her laptop was open beside her, showing the news coverage of her father’s press conference.
“Eleanor.”
She looked up at me, and I saw something in her eyes that made my chest tight. Not fear or anger, but a bone-deep exhaustion that came from being disappointed by someone you’d never quite stopped hoping might love you.
“He rewrote my entire life,” she said quietly. “Turned it into some fucking rescue story where I’m the helpless victim and you’re the big bad wolf.”
I sat down on the floor beside her, close enough to touch but not quite touching. “Your father is a master manipulator. This is what he does.”
“I know what he does. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.”
She gestured at the laptop screen, where her father’s face was frozen mid-speech. “Look at him. The concerned parent, the grieving father. Where was all that concern when I needed him growing up? Where was that love when I was begging him to notice me?”
I wanted to tell her that William Beaumont was incapable of real love, that he only knew how to use people. But she already knew that. What she was mourning wasn’t the loss of her father’s love, but the final death of hope that he might have some to give.
“He didn’t just attack my happiness,” she continued. “He attacked the one place where I was starting to feel like maybe I mattered to someone.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. She was talking about us, about whatever was building between us in the spaces between revenge and necessity.
“You do matter,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
She turned to look at me, searching my face for something. Truth, maybe. Or just confirmation that I wasn’t playing another game.
“Do I? Or am I just a useful weapon in your war against my father?”
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with implications I wasn’t ready to face. Because the honest answer was complicated. She’d started as a weapon, a means to an end. But somewhere along the way, she’d become something else entirely.
Something I couldn’t afford to lose.
“We need to go public,” I said instead of answering her question. “Show the world that you chose this, that you’re exactly where you want to be.”
“How?”
“A party. Tomorrow night. At the Bratva hotel downtown. Media, photographers, society people. We make it impossible for anyone to believe you’re being held against your will.”
Eleanor was quiet for a long moment, considering. “A performance.”
“A statement.”
“And after? What happens when the cameras stop rolling and we come home?”
I met her eyes, letting her see the truth I’d been trying to hide from myself. “Then we figure out what this really is.”
***
The Bratva owned the Meridian Hotel, thirty floors of glass and steel in the heart of downtown Chicago. It was the perfect venue for what I had in mind: elegant enough for high society, intimidating enough to remind everyone exactly who they were dealing with.
The guest list was a careful mix of media, politicians, business leaders, and just enough legitimate celebrities to make it feel like a social event rather than a mob gathering. The kind of people who would spread the word that Eleanor Voronov was exactly where she wanted to be.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase, watching the crowd gather in the ballroom below. Photographers positioned themselves strategically, society reporters worked the room, and the beautiful people of Chicago mingled and gossiped.
Eleanor appeared at my side, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The dress Anya had designed was a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that hugged every curve before flowing into a dramatic train.
Eleanor’s hair was swept up in an elegant updo that showed off the diamond necklace I’d had delivered that afternoon.
She looked like royalty, like a woman who belonged on my arm.
“Ready?” I asked.
“As I’ll ever be.”
I offered her my arm, and we began our descent down the staircase. Every conversation in the ballroom stopped as heads turned to watch us. Camera flashes lit up the space like lightning, and I could practically feel the speculation crackling in the air.
At the bottom of the stairs, I turned to face the crowd. The room fell silent, waiting.
I lifted Eleanor’s hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that was both reverent and possessive. “Allow me to introduce you all to Mrs. Eleanor Voronov.”
The reaction was immediate. Applause, camera flashes, and the kind of murmur that meant gossip was already being born. I caught Ruth Beaumont in the crowd, her expression an artful mix of pride and something more guarded.
For the next two hours, we worked the room like the power couple we were pretending to be. Eleanor was flawless— her laugh just bright enough, her posture impeccable, her eyes never lingering too long on anyone but me.
“Maxim,” boomed Viktor Lebedev, a shipping magnate with hands like vises, “you didn’t tell me your wife was a vision.”
“She’s much more than that,” I said smoothly, introducing Eleanor. She charmed him with a compliment about his latest port acquisition, earning a pleased rumble from the man.
Across the room, socialite Lydia Harrington leaned in conspiratorially. “Is it true you met in Paris?”
Eleanor’s smile was silk and steel. “That’s a story best told over a very expensive bottle of wine.” Lydia laughed, already imagining herself at our table.
We spoke to tech tycoon Ian Mercer, who assessed Eleanor like she was a rare stock option, and heiress Juliette Moreau, who kept touching my sleeve until Eleanor’s hand found my arm in quiet possession.
“Mrs. Voronov,” murmured oil baron Alejandro Ruiz, kissing her cheek, “you’ve caused quite the stir tonight.”
“Good,” Eleanor replied without missing a beat. “It means people are paying attention.”
Rafael appeared at my elbow as she held court with a group of society matrons. “She’s magnificent,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do you? Because the way you’re looking at her suggests this isn’t just business anymore.”
I didn’t respond because he was right, and we both knew it.
The ride home was quiet, both of us exhausted from hours of performance. Eleanor stared out the window at the city lights, her expression unreadable.
“That went well,” I said.
“Did it? Because I felt like a fucking zoo animal on display.”
The words came out sharp, angry, and I felt my own temper flare in response.
“You knew what tonight was about.”
“I knew it was about making your point. I didn’t know it was about turning me into your trophy wife for public consumption.”
We were in the foyer now, the front door closing behind us with a solid thud. Eleanor kicked off her heels and turned to face me, her eyes blazing with fury.