Chapter 3 Victoria
VICTORIA
The afternoon sun turns Chicago into a furnace. Heat shimmers off the pavement in visible waves as my driver pulls up to Maison Lyra, and I take a moment before stepping out to adjust my armor.
Cream silk blouse. Tailored trousers. Heels sharp enough to be weapons, expensive enough to be investments. My hair falls in glossy waves over one shoulder, and my makeup is flawless. The careful work of someone who knows exactly what mask she needs to wear today.
Perfect. Polished. Untouchable.
I step onto the sidewalk, and Zakhar Zverev materializes beside the restaurant entrance like a particularly well-dressed threat.
Dark suit, hands at his sides, weight balanced, ready to move.
Not the fig leaf position today, I notice with satisfaction.
His green eyes track my approach with the focused attention of a man paid to notice everything.
"You're late," he says.
I let my gaze travel up the length of him, taking my time. "Bodyguard duty suits you." My voice drops, honey-sweet with an edge underneath. "All that restrained intensity. It's almost distracting. Tell me, are you always this tense, or is it just me?"
His jaw tightens. Good.
I've been thinking about our last encounter for three days, about the way I made him bristle with a single observation. Men like Zakhar Zverev aren't used to being read so easily, and I enjoy watching them realize their control is an illusion.
"Maksim is already inside," he says, voice flat, giving me nothing.
"Then I suppose I should hurry." I don't hurry. I walk past him with unhurried grace.
The restaurant door swings open, and cool air washes over my overheated skin. The young, blonde, impossibly perky hostess, greets me with a smile that's all teeth and practiced warmth.
"Ms. Ainsley! So wonderful to see you again." She air-kisses near my cheeks, careful not to smudge either of our makeup. "Your table is ready. Right this way."
Maison Lyra is a shrine to feminine luxury.
Blush-rose upholstery, brass fixtures catching light like jewelry.
Pale wood floors gleam beneath crystal chandeliers.
Fresh lilies perfume the air, mixing with espresso and the citrus-sharp scent of artisan cocktails.
Jazz plays softly, almost drowned by female laughter echoing off marble walls.
I chose this place deliberately.
I chose this place very deliberately. For the clientele, yes—society wives and Instagram influencers, the kind of crowd that will see me with Maksim Severyn and spread the story faster than any publicist could.
But also for other reasons.
We weave between tables where women lean close over mimosas and grain bowls, sharing secrets. The hostess leads me to a corner table.
Maksim rises as I approach.
He's in charcoal, perfectly tailored. The fabric moves with him as he stands, and I'm struck again by how tall he is. Six feet of controlled menace dressed in wool and silk. I'm five-six in heels, not short by any measure, yet he makes me feel small.
Delicate.
I notice it. Hate that I notice it.
"Victoria." My name in his mouth sounds like a verdict. He moves around the table with that deliberate grace, and then he's leaning in, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
His lips are warm. His cologne fills my lungs.
My pulse kicks against my throat. I notice the response even as it happens: heightened awareness, skin temperature rising, the urge to lean closer warring with the urge to step back.
Physical reaction to proximity and pheromones, nothing more.
Except my body doesn't seem to understand that distinction, and I'm furious at the betrayal.
His hand settles briefly on my waist to steady me, and the contact burns through silk like a brand.
Then he's pulling out my chair, and I'm sinking into it with hands that threaten to shake. I lock them in my lap.
"How chivalrous," I manage, aiming for wryness and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
He returns to his seat, and satisfaction flickers across his expression. "Don't get used to it. There's a photographer across the street."
Of course.
The paparazzi I arranged. The performance I orchestrated. And I fell for it anyway, let myself feel something for half a second like some naive idiot who still believes in gestures.
I force myself to smile, to ignore the sharp disappointment cutting through my ribs. "I know. I called them."
His eyebrow lifts. "Did you."
"We need to start building the narrative." I reach for the water glass in front of me, then think better of it and set it back down. Keeping my hands still requires active effort. "Rich girl meets dangerous man. Love conquers all. A believable fairy tale."
"Tactical." He leans back, studying me with those ice-blue eyes that see too much.
The waitress appears before I can respond, wearing the restaurant's signature rose-gold apron over black. She sets down menus and launches into the specials with practiced enthusiasm.
I don't need the menu. I've eaten here a dozen times.
"I'll have the heirloom tomato tartare with burrata and micro basil," I say, "but substitute the burrata for the cashew cream, warmed, not cold. And the heritage grain salad on the side, but hold the quinoa and double the farro. Add roasted chickpeas. Crispy. Not soft."
The waitress scribbles frantically.
"For drinks, I need an unopened bottle of still water. Unopened. I'll open it myself. Room temperature, preferably the San Pellegrino if you have it, but not the sparkling. And bring me a lemon, sliced, on the side. Not in the water."
"Of course, Ms. Ainsley." The waitress turns to Maksim, smile still in place but slightly strained. "And for you, sir?"
I watch with barely concealed satisfaction as Maksim pages through the menu, confusion flickering across his face as he scans options like "chickpea flour crepes" and "jackfruit carnitas" and "cauliflower steak with romesco."
The restaurant was built for a female audience, every detail calculated, from the grain bowls to the bathroom amenities that go far beyond soap and mirrors. It's a space designed to exclude men, or at least make them deeply uncomfortable.
Maksim is clearly suffering.
"Do you have steak?" he asks finally.
The waitress's smile turns apologetic. "I'm afraid we don't serve meat, sir. We're a plant-forward establishment."
"Plant-forward." He repeats the words like they're in a language he doesn't speak. "What's the closest thing you have?"
"Probably the beetroot carpaccio? It's thinly sliced, served with arugula and—"
"I'll have that." He closes the menu with finality, hands it back. "Rare."
The waitress giggles. Actually giggles, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound.
And something sharp lodges between my ribs. I recognize it immediately: jealousy, hot and irrational, because this woman is laughing at Maksim's joke and his mouth has curved into something almost like a real smile.
I hate the feeling. Dissect it clinically: threat assessment, territorial response, basic primate brain chemistry. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.
The waitress leaves, still grinning, and silence settles over our table.
Maksim's gaze finds mine across the small expanse of linen and crystal. The intensity makes my skin prickle with awareness. He's looking at me the way a scientist looks at a specimen under glass.
"In your father's office," he says finally, "you said you knew who I was. What I do." He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table in a posture that's almost casual except for the steel underneath. "Clarify that for me."
My pulse jumps. Dangerous territory.
I know exactly who Maksim Severyn is. Who all three of them are.
They crawled out of Moscow's underbelly.
Fought their way into the Valkov Bratva as foot soldiers, proved themselves with blood and loyalty until they became indispensable.
Then, over a decade ago, they orchestrated a coup so brutal and efficient that the Valkov name disappeared overnight, replaced by Severyn.
Took a Russia-based operation and turned it global. Diversified. Legitimized where they could, operated in shadows where they couldn't.
Now they're here, trying to infiltrate power from within by marrying a socialite who can open doors their money alone never will.
I know all of this. But I can't let him know that I know.
I shrug one shoulder, the picture of casual disinterest. "I read the papers. Society pages, mostly. Your name comes up." I pause, let my lips curve slightly. "And considering what my father does for a living, it's smart to keep my pulse on certain... business relationships."
"The papers." His tone suggests he doesn't believe me for a second.
"Should I have done more research?" I tilt my head, all innocence. "Run a background check before agreeing to marry you?"
Silence. He studies me with that unsettling focus, and I force myself not to fidget, not to reach for the water glass again like some nervous debutante.
Finally, he sits back. "You're either very observant or very well-informed."
"Can't I be both?"
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. Something more dangerous. "You can be whatever you want, moya koroleva."
The endearment lands like a caress wrapped around a blade. My queen. Possessive. Proprietary. The kind of thing that should make me bristle but instead sends heat curling low in my stomach, unwelcome and undeniable.
I need to deflect before he probes deeper.
"Speaking of which," I say brightly, forcing my voice into the register of excited bride-to-be, "we should discuss wedding arrangements. I'm thinking a winter ceremony would be ideal. December, maybe January. Something elegant at the—"
"Three weeks."
The words cut through my planning like a blade.
I stop mid-sentence. "What?"
"The wedding will be in three weeks." He says it like he's commenting on the weather, casual and absolute.
Three weeks.