Chapter 32
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
DINARA
One leg hangs over the edge of the tub, my ankle still shackled to that goddamn chain. The metal looks like a piece of jewelry in the sun streaming through the windows, a reminder that I’m trapped here no matter how fancy the cage.
The water’s gone lukewarm but I don’t have the energy to drain it and refill. I lie here, staring at the ceiling, letting my brain chase the same spiraling thoughts since Kirill left yesterday morning. I haven’t heard a word from him, or anyone, since then.
Although his housekeeper has dutifully left my meals just inside the door.
I’ve spent the time cataloging every inch of this room.
Tested the window locks (reinforced, likely alarmed).
Examined the chain for weak points (none I could exploit without tools).
Searched every drawer and cabinet for anything useful (luxury toiletries, expensive linens, nothing sharp or heavy enough to be a weapon).
Mostly, I’ve been trying not to think about what happens from here. Eventually, Kirill will drag the truth out of me, one way or another. He’s already drugged me. Tied me up. Stripped me down and interrogated me. He’s not above doing whatever it takes to get what he wants.
If Kirill discovers I’m Dinara Potapova, I’m a dead woman. A Belov Syndicate hacker showing up in New York the exact moment his family comes under attack? It’s all too convenient. I couldn’t blame him.
I reach forward and twist the hot tap, watching fresh steam rise as the temperature climbs again.
But he also carried me to bed when I was unconscious. Covered me with a blanket. Cooked me breakfast and made sure I ate every bite.
The contradictions make my head hurt. I’m his captive but I’m soaking in his bathtub, using his stupidly expensive bath products, replaying the way his thumb felt dragging across my bottom lip.
I sink under the water, letting it close over my head. Everything goes muffled and distant, just the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.
When I open my eyes, Kirill is standing over the tub watching me. I jerk upright, water sloshing over the rim, hands instinctively crossing over my chest even though he’s seen it all.
“Ever heard of knocking?” I snap. Even captives deserve some privacy.
“Morning, solnyshko. Enjoying the tub?” His gaze darkens, dragging from my face down to where bubbles cling to the top of my breasts.
“Oh yeah, it’s fantastic. Really living the dream here.” I sink lower into the water, pulling my knees up.
“Very funny. I like that about you.” He crouches down, bringing us to eye level. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
His fingers wrap around my ankle hanging over the edge of the tub. I squirm as his thumb strokes the inside of it, just above where the metal bites into skin.
“What do you want?” I wheeze, to distract from his effect on me.
Instead of answering, he crosses to the door and opens it.
A middle-aged woman in an elegant black suit holds out a massive white garment bag.
Kirill takes it, murmurs something to her, and closes the door.
He turns back toward me, unzipping the bag in one slow pull as he crosses the room, and holds it open.
Something white and delicate peeks through the partially open zipper.
A wedding dress.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “What is this? Some kind of joke?”
Kirill’s expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t crack into a smile or show any hint he finds this funny.
I grow serious. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand it. But we’re getting married today. I’ve already made the arrangements.”
“Why?” I sit up, water streaming off my shoulders. “Why marriage?”
“I have my reasons,” he says.
I notch up my chin. “I refuse.”
He lets out a low, dark chuckle that fills the entire bathroom. “I think you know that’s not an option.”
A knot forms behind my sternum. He’s right. I have no leverage, no way out, no card to play. I’m stuck.
But … He doesn’t know my true identity. He thinks he’s marrying Evelina Panova. Her name will be on the marriage contract. Without my legal name, our marriage won’t be binding.
And being his wife could mean access to his world, his people, his resources. Freedom to ask questions without raising suspicion. Proximity to the answers I’ve been hunting since I arrived in New York.
I’ll wear his ring. Say the vows. Play the obedient bride. And the second I find out what happened to my mother, Evelina Panova disappears and Kirill Baronov wakes up alone.
I force a sigh, letting the tension drain from my shoulders like I’m accepting defeat. “You’re really dramatic, you know that.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “You have no idea. Now get out of the tub and get ready.”
“Kind of hard to do with a shackle on my ankle. Unless you want me dripping bathwater all over your pristine floors.”
He pulls a small key from his pocket, crouches down again. His fingers are warm against my skin as he unlocks the cuff, letting it fall away.
“Stand up,” he grits out.
My hesitation is less about modesty and more about the niggling sense I’m not as in control of this situation as I’d like to believe.
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
I rise slowly, water streaming off my body. His gaze tracks every inch of exposed skin, lingering on my breasts, the curve of my waist, the junction of my thighs. Heat envelops me, despite the cool air coating my wet skin.
He grabs the towel from the rack, steps closer until he’s wrapping it around me, his hands brushing my shoulders as he tucks the edge between my breasts.
He offers his hand and I take it, letting him steady me as I step onto the bathmat. His touch lingers for longer than necessary, before he reaches for a second towel and starts working it through my wet hair, fingers massaging my scalp as he squeezes water from the strands.
It feels so damn good I bite my lip to strangle the moan on the tip of my tongue.
His breath is warm against my temple. “Turn.”
My body complies. His hands settle on my shoulders, the towel dragging down my spine in slow, deliberate strokes. Lower, to the small of my back, then up again across my shoulder blades.
Being toweled dry should not feel like foreplay. Yet the deliberate slide of his hands over my skin is ruining my focus, giving me one more reason to run from him.
When he’s finished, he steps away to open the door. The same middle-aged woman stands in the hallway with a team behind her.
“They’ll help you get ready.” Kirill moves aside as the woman enters, followed by two younger assistants pushing a rolling rack loaded with makeup cases and hair tools. A man brings up the rear, carrying a bottle of champagne and what looks like a charcuterie board that could feed ten people.
Kirill looks back at me, still wrapped in the towel with water dripping from my hair, and flashes a wicked smile. “You have two hours. Don’t keep me waiting.”
The woman nearest me offers a courteous smile. “Shall we begin?”
“Pop the champagne first,” I say, needing liquid courage. “And keep it coming.”
Two hours later, I’m standing in front of a mirror wearing a dress that fits me so perfectly it pisses me off a little.
Ivory silk with delicate lace details both elegant and subtly sexy.
It hugs my waist before flowing into a skirt that makes me feel like I’m floating.
My hair is swept up with a few loose pieces framing my face, and my makeup is flawless.
Glowing and natural, like I’m genuinely a happy bride instead of a woman who’s being backed into a corner.
Elana, the stylist, adjusts my veil one last time, her eyes a little misty. “You look beautiful, Mrs. Baronova.”
A sharp chill settles under my skin. “Nope. Not my name.” At least not yet.
She gives me a patient smile before she opens the door and ushers me into the hallway, toward the main foyer. Her job is to make sure I don’t do a runner, as if I could. She keeps a gentle hand on my lower back that suggests her life depends on me showing up to his farce of a wedding.
Well, joke’s on her, on all of them honestly, because I’ll go through with the wedding.
I remember playing dress-up as a kid with my friends.
One of us would pose as the man and one as the woman in whatever bridal-looking get-up we could scrounge from our parents’ closets, going through with the ceremony even though none of us had ever been to a wedding.
Those games were always bittersweet for me. There was no mother’s closet to raid, and no happy marriage in my house to emulate. I guess this won’t be so different.
The penthouse is modern and elegant and clearly costly. Every surface gleams, every detail is perfect. It’s the kind of place you see in magazines with giant windows letting in so much natural light that the whole place glows.
As I turn the corner, music drifts toward me. Something classical and romantic, the kind of thing you’d hear at a real wedding. And then the space opens up and I stop breathing for a beat.
White roses and peonies fill the living area, arranged in tall vases and scattered across the floor in delicate patterns.
Peonies. Like the ones that match my tattoos. My mother’s favorite flower.
The priest stands at the far end near the windows, wearing traditional robes and holding a leather Bible.
To his left, Kirill’s brothers stand side by side.
Demyan looks skeptical, arms crossed over his chest like he’s still not convinced this is a good idea.
Matvey’s mouth is quirked like he’s trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation.
And beside them is a beautiful young woman who I’ve never seen before.
She can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen, wavy hair framing her heart-shaped face.
She’s the only one who looks genuinely happy about this whole thing, her smile bright and hopeful.
Judging by her resemblance to the brothers, same dark hair, same model-like bone structure, this must be Katya, their little sister.
Something in my chest knots seeing her here, this girl who has no idea what kind of trap her brother just orchestrated.
And then there’s Kirill.
He’s standing to the right, framed by a wall of windows with the entire city spread out behind him.
His tuxedo is black and perfectly tailored, emphasizing every line of his body.
His hair is styled back, showing off those harsh but beautiful sharp angles.
His silver-blue eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.
He looks like a villain from one of those forbidden romance novels I used to sneak from the library and read under my covers when I was a girl. You know he’s bad for you but you can’t stay away.
Kirill’s beautiful mouth curves into a smile meant only for me, secretive and knowing, and my heart performs a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. The cocky confidence I felt in the bedroom, drinking champagne and being fussed over by a team of beauty experts, evaporates.
This feels too real. The music, the flowers, the way he’s drinking me in like I’m light in a world of shadows. My heart trips over itself, like it doesn’t get this is all for show.
I force myself to keep walking, one foot in front of the other, until I’m standing across from him.
“You look incredible,” he murmurs when I reach him, leaning in so the words are just for me.
The priest begins in Russian, his voice filling the space with words about love and partnership and forever. Kirill takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine with easy familiarity.
This isn’t real, I remind myself while the priest talks about commitment and fidelity and forever. A mantra in my head. I can say the words and go through the motions because it means nothing, it’s not binding. I’m protected by the fiction I built around myself.
The priest’s voice rises, pulling me back to the moment.
“Do you, Kirill Baronov, take Dinara Potapova to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
The world tilts sideways.
He knows the truth. My real name. The one buried under layers of fake documents and carefully constructed lies.
If he knows my name, he has to know I work for the Belov Syndicate. Knows everything I’ve been trying to hide.
I thought I was playing him. Turns out, he's been playing me all along. And I just walked down the aisle straight into his trap.