Chapter Fourteen - Dimitri
The reception ends mercifully quick.
I make the necessary appearances—accept congratulations from men whose respect matters, deflect questions about the sudden marriage with vague references to timing and opportunity, endure Damien’s barely concealed fury with practiced indifference. He corners me once, voice low and dangerous.
“We’re discussing this tomorrow. My office.”
“Looking forward to it.”
His eyes promise consequences I’ll deal with when they come. For now, I have more immediate concerns.
Janice moves through the reception like a ghost. Smiling when prompted, accepting well-wishes with careful politeness, playing the role of dutiful bride with an accuracy that would be impressive if it weren’t so obviously strategic.
She’s planning something. I can see it in the careful neutrality of her expression, the way she catalogs every face and files away information for later use.
Good. I’d rather have her fighting than broken.
By midnight, the last guests have departed. Staff clear glasses and plates with efficient silence, and suddenly it’s just us in a penthouse that feels smaller than it did hours ago.
Janice stands by the windows, still wearing the wedding dress that fits her like it was designed specifically for her body. I’d had measurements taken while she slept, had the dress commissioned and delivered within hours.
Money solves most problems when you have enough of it.
“You should change,” I say. “Get comfortable.”
She doesn’t turn. “Into what? I don’t have clothes here.”
“Guest room closet. I had things brought in while you were—” I pause, choosing words carefully. “—resting.”
“You mean while I was unconscious after whatever you gave me to knock me out.”
“I didn’t drug you, Janice. You passed out from exhaustion and stress. The maids dressed you this morning.”
“How convenient.” Her voice carries an edge that hasn’t been there before. Sharper. Angrier. “That I just happened to sleep through being put in a wedding dress.”
“Believe what you want. The clothes are there if you want them.”
She finally turns to face me, and the look in her eyes makes something tighten in my chest. Not fear anymore. Something colder.
“I’m your wife now.”
“Yes.”
“Legally bound. Under your name, your protection, your control.”
“That was the agreement.”
“I never agreed to anything. You gave me an ultimatum and orchestrated everything to ensure I had no choice.” She takes a step closer. “So let’s be clear about what this actually is. Ownership.”
“If that’s how you want to frame it.”
“It’s the truth.”
I cross the space between us slowly, watching her tense but hold her ground.
“You’re right. I gave you no real choice.
I manipulated circumstances to ensure the outcome I wanted.
I took away your freedom to protect you from consequences you don’t fully understand.
” I stop directly in front of her, close enough to see her pulse hammer at her throat.
“You walked down that aisle anyway. You said I do when you could have refused. So tell me, Janice, why?”
She holds my gaze, defiant and beautiful and so goddamn dangerous to everything I’ve built.
“Refusing would have been suicide. Because I’m smart enough to recognize when I’m trapped. Fighting you in front of all those people would have accomplished nothing except getting me killed.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“What other reason could there possibly be?”
“You tell me.”
The air between us crackles with tension that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the four years of unfinished business pressing down on us both.
“I should change,” Janice says finally, voice carefully neutral. “It’s been a long day.”
She moves past me toward the guest suite, and I let her go. Watch the sway of her hips in that white dress, the stiff set of her shoulders that broadcasts how much effort composure is costing her.
The guest suite door closes with a soft click.
I pour a drink I don’t finish and wait.
***
Twenty minutes later, the door opens again.
Janice emerges wearing a silk robe I recognize from the collection I’d had delivered—deep blue, tied loosely at the waist, revealing the soft curves of her body in ways the wedding dress had only hinted at.
Her hair is down now, falling in waves around her shoulders.
Face scrubbed clean of the makeup that had made her look like someone else’s version of a bride.
She looks like herself again.
She stops when she sees me still in the living room, clearly expecting me to have retreated to my own space by now.
“I thought you’d be in your room,” she says.
“This is my penthouse. Every room is my room.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. She expected distance. Expected me to claim ownership through the ceremony and then give her space to process, to adjust, to build whatever walls she thinks will protect her from what comes next.
I’m not giving her that.
“The guest suite is yours if you want it,” I say. “But you’re my wife now. That comes with certain… expectations.”
Her jaw tightens. “If you think I’m sleeping with you, you’re delusional.”
“I think you’re going to make that decision yourself.” I stand, and she tracks the movement like I’m something dangerous. Smart woman. “We should talk. Really talk. No games, no manipulation. Just honesty about what this marriage actually means.”
“Fine. Talk.”
“Not here. My bedroom, where we won’t be interrupted.”
“We’re the only people in this entire penthouse.”
“You sure about that?” I let the implication hang. Surveillance, staff, security—she has no idea how many eyes might be watching at any given moment.
Her expression shifts. “You’re paranoid.”
“I’m careful.” I gesture toward the hallway leading to the master suite. “Come on. Unless you’d prefer to have this conversation where anyone monitoring security feeds can hear every word.”
She hesitates, weighing options, then follows.
The master suite is exactly as I left it this morning—bed made with military precision, everything in its place, no evidence of the chaos Janice has introduced into my carefully controlled life.
Except she’s here now, standing in the doorway like she’s afraid crossing the threshold will trigger something irreversible.
Maybe it will.
I close the door behind us, and her eyes flick to it briefly before returning to me.
“Why did you really marry me?” she asks. “Don’t say protection. There are a dozen ways you could have kept me safe without marriage.”
“You’re right. There are.” I lean against the dresser, maintaining distance she clearly needs. “I married you because the alternative was letting you go, and I tried that once. It didn’t work.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I spent four years trying to forget you existed. Four years convincing myself that ending things was the right choice, that you were better off without me, that I could move on.” I meet her eyes directly. “I was wrong about all of it.”
“So this is what, delayed possession?”
“Partially.”
The honesty seems to surprise her. “At least you’re not pretending this is something noble.”
“There’s nothing noble about any of this. I’m being selfish. Taking what I want because I can, because circumstances aligned to make it possible, because the alternative is unacceptable.”
“What I want doesn’t matter?”
“What do you want, Janice?”
The question hangs between us. She opens her mouth, closes it again. Looks away.
“I don’t know anymore,” she admits finally. “I wanted revenge for what you did. Wanted to hurt you the way you hurt me. The exposé was supposed to accomplish that.”
“It did.”
“Then I wanted to move on. Build a career, forget you existed, prove I could survive without you.” She laughs, bitter and sharp. “That worked out great.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m married to a man who terrifies me. Who killed three people without hesitation. Who owns this city in ways I’m only beginning to understand.” She turns back to face me. “Now I want to survive. That’s all I have left.”
The defeat in her voice does something unexpected to me. I didn’t want her broken. Didn’t want compliance born from hopelessness.
I wanted her fire. Her defiance. The challenge she represents.
“You’re stronger than you think,” I say quietly.
“Am I? I feel pretty powerless right now.”
“You walked into my office and admitted to writing that exposé. You could have lied, could have denied it, could have protected yourself. Instead, you owned it. Threw it in my face like you were proud of what you’d done.”
“I was stupid.”
“You were brave.”
“Bravery and stupidity look the same from certain angles.”
I push off the dresser, closing the distance between us. She tenses but doesn’t retreat.
“You want to know why I really married you?” I ask. “Beyond protection, beyond revenge, beyond all the strategic justifications I gave Damien and Felix and myself?”
“Why?”
“You’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and seen both the monster and the man.
Who didn’t flinch from what I am, but also didn’t worship it.
You challenged me. Made me feel something beyond calculated interest.” I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She doesn’t. My fingers brush her jaw, tilt her face up to mine.
“Four years, and I never stopped wanting that. Wanting you.”
Her breath catches. I can see the war happening behind her eyes—fear battling desire, self-preservation clashing with curiosity.
“I should hate you,” she says.
“You do hate me.”
“Then why do I—” She cuts herself off, but I hear the question underneath.
Why does she want me anyway?
“Hate and want aren’t mutually exclusive,” I answer.
“You’re arrogant.”
“I’m observant.” My thumb traces her lower lip, and she trembles. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t feel this.”
She doesn’t. Can’t. We both know the truth.
This thing between us never died. It just went dormant, waiting for the right catalyst to ignite it again.