Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Leah
At nine a.m. sharp, a black car pulled up at my door, just like they'd promised. It drove me straight toward Long Island.
Outside the window, the scenery shifted from cramped tenement buildings to endless walls and iron gates.
I snuck a glance at the man driving me—Sergei, I think. The same guy who'd kicked down my door yesterday. Weirdly enough, that made me grateful enough not to be terrified of him.
He was cold as ice, but I tried making small talk anyway, fishing for information.
"You'll find out when we get there, Miss Carter." Sergei's eyes never left the road. "Mr. Volkov doesn't like his men talking."
I shut my mouth, hope draining fast.
These mobsters sure had a lot of rules.
Every few dozen yards along the drive, a man in a black suit appeared. As we passed, they bowed their heads in unison.
The sheer scale of it stunned me. My barely-calmed nerves kicked back into overdrive.
The car stopped in front of a massive Gothic stone structure.
Pointed towers, arched windows, gray walls crawling with ivy—this wasn't a home. It was a fortress.
Every cold stone screamed the same message.
I'd just stepped into the most dangerous empire in New York.
Sergei opened my door, flashing a polite smile.
"Miss Carter, Mr. Volkov is expecting you in his study." He gestured. "Follow me."
I trailed him through room after room with soaring ceilings—crystal chandeliers, dark wood paneling, paintings I couldn't begin to understand. Everything reeked of expensive hostility.
The study was at the far end of the second floor. Sergei pushed open the heavy wooden door and led me inside.
Roman sat behind a massive mahogany desk, working through some papers. His fingers—all sharp angles and clean lines—gripped a fountain pen, scrawling quick notes across the page.
Even just sitting there, that perfectly tailored dark suit, the hard line of his jaw, those slightly furrowed brows—it all radiated a brutal kind of handsome.
Honestly? If I didn't know there was a devil behind that face, I'd probably admit he was the best-looking man I'd ever seen.
As if sensing my stare, Roman suddenly looked up. Those black eyes slammed into mine without warning.
Caught red-handed, my heart jumped. Twenty-five years of waitressing, cashiering, and plastering on fake smiles for every type of customer kicked in instantly—I reflexively pulled out my customer-service grin and called out cheerfully.
"Good morning!"
The second it left my mouth, I wanted to slap myself. Was I about to ask if he wanted an Americano or a latte next?
"Sit," Roman said.
I sat in the chair across from him, spine straight. Trust me, that took effort in a place like this.
Roman set down his pen and laid out the job requirements, no frills.
"There are some things you need to know up front.
" He paused. "Every so often, I'll take you to certain events.
Galas, charity functions, family gatherings.
In front of those people, you're my wife.
My doted-on wife." Another pause. "Not just outsiders.
The staff in this house, my grandmother, everyone—you play the part for all of them.
We're a couple who's sickeningly in love.
You don't need to act timid. You can be a little spoiled, even. "
Spoiled?
I mentally filed that away. Alright then. Not exactly my forte, but sure.
Honestly, this "job" sounded ridiculously simple.
Compared to memorizing twenty drink orders during morning rush at the coffee shop while smiling through customer abuse, playing a pampered wife seemed downright easy.
But the simplicity made me even more nervous about voicing what I'd been thinking. Still, this was my only shot.
"Sir." I took a deep breath and pulled out the wrinkled list I'd stayed up all night making. "If this is a deal, then I have conditions too."
Roman blinked, clearly not expecting that. He raised one eyebrow and leaned back in his chair.
"Let's hear it," he drawled.
"First, separate rooms." I read nervously from my paper.
"We each get our own space. You don't set foot in mine.
Second, we don't interfere with each other's private lives.
Whatever you do outside, whoever you see—none of my business.
Same goes the other way. Third, the wife thing is for show only.
When it's just us, we're strangers who happen to share a house. "
Roman let out a low laugh.
First time I'd seen anything resembling a smile on his face since I'd met him.
Of course—we hadn't known each other that long.
"Separate rooms." He repeated it slowly, like he was tasting the words. "Miss Carter, we already crossed that line. Isn't it a little late for rules?"
My face burned, but I glared at him, refusing to back down.
"That was an accident," I said through gritted teeth. "Accidents shouldn't keep happening."
Roman's eyebrow quirked higher, amusement deepening in his eyes, but he didn't argue.
"Fine," he said.
I paused, saving the most important one for last.
"And fourth—this marriage needs an end date. One year, ideally. Within that year, you find your replacement. Then you let me and my baby go. And you guarantee our safety."
Totally reasonable, I told myself.
I couldn't be a fake wife in this gilded cage forever. A year was plenty of time for him to find someone else suitable.
I finished reading and pushed the paper to the center of the desk. Sat up straight. Waited.
I'd prepared myself for the worst—maybe I'd get thrown out with my bag right behind me.
But Roman just raised an eyebrow slightly.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Deal." He said it like he was brushing off the smallest inconvenience.
He didn't even touch the paper. Just glanced at Sergei by the door. "You hear that? Draft a contract with her terms. Now."
Sergei bowed and left.
I sat there, stunned. I'd prepared a whole arsenal of arguments and negotiations. All of it useless.
Minutes later, Sergei returned with a printed contract, placing it respectfully on the desk. Roman pulled out his fountain pen, skimmed it, and signed his name quickly.
Then he paused and wrote a number at the bottom.
One, two, three... six zeros.
"This is..." My voice came out dry.
"Your payment." Roman capped his pen and pushed the contract toward me. "Your salary for the year. Once you sign, everyone in this house will treat you like the real Mrs. Volkova."
"Why... so much?" The words tumbled out. I'd rather believe there was a catch. "You could pay me a fraction and I still wouldn't have a choice."
Roman seemed pleased by my reaction.
"This money buys your cooperation for a year. And your silence." His tone stayed flat. "Once you've seen what really goes on in this house, you'll understand it's not much at all."
I stared at that number, then at his expressionless face, suddenly dizzy with absurdity.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was a broke nobody sold off by her ex to cover his debts, chased through her apartment by loan sharks.
Twenty-four hours later, I'd become the wife of New York's most dangerous man.
Fate had a sick sense of humor sometimes.
I picked up the heavy pen. The moment the tip touched paper, I felt like I was dreaming.
For Harper. For this barely-formed little life inside me. For that future I'd always dreamed of—one that was actually mine.
I signed my name.
After I signed, Roman snapped his fingers.
A woman in a crisp black dress walked in—fifties, maybe, hair pulled back perfectly, kind eyes. The warmest-looking person I'd seen in this ice-box of a mansion.
"Miss Carter, I'm the housekeeper here, Emily Hart." She gave me a small bow, smiling politely. "I'll show you to your room."
Years of customer service kicked in backward—I instinctively bowed back at Emily.
"Straighten your spine."
Roman's cold voice came from behind me.
I froze.
"Starting today, no one in this house ranks higher than you. Except me."
I snapped out of it, awkwardly lifting myself upright. I took a deep breath, forcing on an unnatural composure, and nodded at Emily.
Emily smiled politely and led me out of the study.
The mansion was absurdly huge. Just getting from the study to my bedroom meant turning three or four corners, passing through two painting-lined hallways, my feet sinking into Persian rugs thick enough to swallow half a shoe.
Behind every door, there was probably something worth more than my entire apartment.
As we turned onto a wide spiral staircase, I saw a little girl.
A kid. Here. That surprised me. This place seemed better suited for guns. Or bodies. Not children.
She sat quietly on the landing where the stairs turned, back to the light, holding a doll in her lap, brushing its hair stroke by stroke.
She wore a pale blue dress, skin so white it was almost translucent, long lashes casting tiny shadows under her eyes. She looked delicate, like those blinking porcelain dolls in shop windows.
I've always loved kids. Seeing her, I instinctively softened my steps, bent down, and gave her what I thought was my friendliest smile.
Maybe, I thought, she'd be my first friend in this new "job"—that idea lifted my spirits a little.
"Hi," I said gently. "Your doll is beautiful. What's her name?"
She glanced up at me briefly.
Then she lowered her head again, continuing to brush the doll's hair, stroke by stroke, like I and my dumb greeting weren't worth a second of her attention.
I straightened up awkwardly and turned to Emily, lowering my voice.
"Emily, who is she? Why is there a kid here?"
Emily's polite smile faded. She guided me a few steps away from the little girl, voice dropping low.
"This is Miss Mira," she said quietly. "She's... Mr. Volkov's five-year-old daughter."
I'd never heard anywhere that this cold-blooded Pakhan had a daughter hidden away.
"Roman's... daughter?"
"Yes." Emily hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "His and Irina's child."
So Roman Volkov already had a wife. And a daughter this old. Then why the hell did he need me—a total stranger—as a fake wife?
I opened my mouth to ask more, but Emily quickly changed the subject.
"Since you'll be living here, though, there's something you should know sooner rather than later." She glanced at the small figure on the landing. "Miss Mira... she's not doing well."
"Not well?"
"Ever since her mother left," Emily sighed, "Mira shut herself away. She won't speak. The doctors call it mutism."
She looked back at that tiny, lonely silhouette, eyes full of genuine heartbreak.
"It's been almost a year. We rarely hear her talk."
"We've hired seven nannies to care for her." Emily continued. "Each one paid more than the last. Not one of them lasted. Mira hates almost all of them. The longest anyone stayed was a month."
She gazed at the unnaturally quiet little girl, voice heavy with helplessness.
My eyes locked onto that small, lonely figure.
The year my parents divorced, I was like that too. Silent. Closed off. I stopped talking.
I got passed around like a package between Dad's new place and Mom's new place, never having a room that was really mine.
I learned to read the room. Learned not to cry or make a fuss. Learned to shrink myself down to nothing, pretending I didn't exist—that way, no one would find me inconvenient.
I knew exactly what it felt like to have no place to land in this huge world, to feel like a burden.
Taking care of this kid—that wasn't anywhere in the contract I'd signed for all that money.
But I didn't care anymore.
I shoved my canvas bag at Emily, pulled free from her hand as she tried to stop me, and walked toward the little girl, one step at a time.
I crouched down slowly in front of Mira, bringing my eyes level with hers.
I dropped my usual loud, brash voice and spoke in the softest, gentlest tone I'd ever used.
"Mira," I said, looking at her. "My name's Leah. I really, really love dolls too. Would you maybe... introduce me to yours?"
I reached out my hand, testing.
The next second, that tiny porcelain hand swatted mine away hard.
The little girl clutched her doll tighter and stared at me with eyes full of resistance.
There wasn't a trace of five-year-old innocence in that look. Only a cold hostility completely wrong for her age.
Alright then. Tough opponent.
But I was making this friend. No matter what.