Chapter 3 Victoria #2
Not enough time. Not nearly enough time to organize everything I need to organize, to secure the resources I need to secure, to hide what needs to stay buried.
"That's impossible," I say, and I can hear the edge in my voice, the control starting to fray at the seams. "You can't organize a proper wedding in three weeks. The venue alone—"
"Money solves most problems." He leans back, utterly relaxed while I'm trying to calculate contingencies in real-time. "My assistant has already secured a venue. We'll hire whoever you need. Planners, florists, caterers. It's not complicated."
"It's extremely complicated—"
"It's necessary." His voice hardens just enough to remind me that underneath the expensive suit sits a man who overthrew a Pakhan and took his throne. "My business doesn't allow for delays. The Albanians need to see commitment. Three weeks, Victoria. That's the timeline."
I open my mouth to argue, but he's already reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a small velvet box, slides it across the table with the same casual efficiency he might use to pass the salt.
"Engagement ring," he says simply.
The box sits between us.
I stare at it for a long moment, trying to steady my breathing, trying to make my hands work properly. Finally, I reach for it, pop it open.
The ring is beautiful.
Platinum band. Cushion-cut diamond that catches light and throws it back in rainbow fragments. Smaller stones set in a halo around the center, delicate and flawless. It's the kind of ring you see in magazines, the kind that makes other women lean close and sigh with envy.
When I was a little girl, before I learned that monsters wear expensive cologne and move through society with impunity, I used to dream about this moment. About someone sliding a ring onto my finger with hands that trembled slightly. About promises that meant something.
This couldn't be further from that fantasy.
I stare at the ring until the stones blur slightly. Blink hard to clear my vision. Lock down the grief trying to claw up from whatever place I keep emotions I can't afford to feel.
Dreams are for children. I learned a long time ago not to waste time on things that aren't meant for me.
"If you don't like it," Maksim says, and there's something almost careful in his voice, "or if you think it's not big enough, you can go to one of our stores. éclat. We own them. Pick something else. My assistant assured me this would be appropriate, but—"
The words hit like cold water.
Of course. His assistant. He didn't even pick the ring himself. Why would he? This is a business transaction. A strategic acquisition. The ring is just another line item on a contract, selected by someone paid to handle details he can't be bothered with.
I need to stop letting myself feel anything when it comes to this man.
"It's perfect," I cut him off, sliding the ring onto my finger. It fits exactly. Of course it does. "Absolutely perfect."
I force myself to look up, to meet his gaze, to resurrect the mask. "Three weeks. I'll make it work."
"Good." He nods once, satisfied.
"I have one condition." The words come out harder than I intended, sharp enough to draw blood. "I don't want my father to give me away."
Maksim's expression shifts. Not surprise, exactly. Interest. "Why?"
"Does it matter?"
"It might."
I lean forward, let my voice drop into something cold and precise. "My father sold me to pay his debts. I'm not going to stand at the end of an aisle and pretend he's handing me over with paternal pride and love. I'll walk alone, or this whole production can go straight to hell."
Silence. He studies me, weighing costs against benefits, calculating whether this particular battle is worth fighting.
"Very well," he says finally. "Although it's not ideal for appearances."
Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
"But," he continues, and my stomach drops, "in exchange, you'll need to move in. Immediately."
"What? No." I shake my head, adrenaline spiking. "We already discussed this. We agreed separate residences."
"That was before you asked to walk alone." His voice is maddeningly reasonable. "We're renegotiating. The Albanians are suspicious of the engagement. They need to believe this marriage is real, which means we need to live together. Make it look authentic."
"You said—"
"Circumstances change. Terms adjust. That's how negotiations work, Victoria." He pauses, lets that sink in. "You know that."
I do know that. I just didn't expect him to use my own tactics against me quite this efficiently.
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, final.
Except it's not fine. Living under his roof means I can't slip away to handle the things I need to handle. The operations that can't pause just because I'm playing house with a mobster.
But I can work with this. I've worked with worse constraints.
I'll be so difficult, so demanding, such an insufferable princess that he'll be begging me to leave within a month. Death by a thousand tiny inconveniences until moving me out seems like the only logical solution.
I can do this.
The waitress returns with our food, setting plates down with cheerful efficiency. My tartare looks perfect with ruby tomatoes arranged like art, cashew cream drizzled just so. Maksim's beetroot carpaccio is exactly what he deserves: thin slices of vegetable pretending to be something substantial.
I watch her set down his plate, and that sharp feeling between my ribs intensifies.
Time to start the performance.
I hate this before I even open my mouth.
"Excuse me." My voice comes out sweet as honey, cutting as glass. I squint at her nametag. "Jelena, is it? This isn't what I ordered."
Jelena blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"The cream." I gesture at my plate with one manicured finger, the diamond on my hand catching light like an accusation.
"I specifically said warmed. This is barely room temperature.
And the chickpeas—" I pick one up between thumb and forefinger, examine it with theatrical disdain "are soft.
I said crispy. Do you understand the difference? "
Jelena's face flushes red. "I... I can take it back—"
"Please do." I push the plate toward her with barely concealed contempt. "And perhaps pay attention this time. I understand following instructions can be difficult, but I did speak quite clearly."
She mumbles an apology, scoops up my plate with shaking hands, and hurries away. As she turns, our eyes meet for half a second, and I plead her silently to play along and she nods in understanding.
The women at nearby tables have noticed. Their laughter dies down, replaced by whispers behind raised hands and knowing looks.
Good. Let them see Victoria Ainsley being exactly what they expect. A spoiled socialite with too much money and too little grace.
Let Maksim see what he's bought.
I reach for the unopened water bottle, crack the seal myself with deliberate precision, and pour it into my wine glass. The diamond on my finger throws tiny rainbows across the white tablecloth, beautiful and meaningless.
Maksim watches this entire performance without expression.
Three weeks until I walk down an aisle toward a man who bought me and a life that will require every survival skill I've spent years honing.
Then a year of performance. A year of living in his house, playing his wife, maintaining the lie while keeping my secrets buried so deep he'll never think to look for them.
I survived learning that safety is an illusion. I survived waking up violated with no one who believed me. I survived building something that matters from nothing but rage and determination.
I can survive Maksim Severyn.
I lift my water glass in a silent toast to the future, to the role I'm about to play, to the control I'm determined to maintain even as everything shifts into shapes I don't recognize.
The ring sits heavy on my finger.
Three weeks.
The countdown has already started, and I'm running out of time.