Chapter 4 Daniil #2
She picks up her lemonade and takes a sip, her eyes never leaving mine. “What was she like? Your mother?”
The question hits deeper than I expected. I haven't spoken about my mother to anyone outside the Bratva since her death. Even then, the conversations were about business, succession, and maintaining power. No one has asked about her as a person.
“Formidable,” I answer after a moment. “She built Obsidian Vault from nothing. Turned it into a global operation. She was brilliant, and ruthless when necessary, but fair.”
“She sounds impressive,” Naomi says softly.
“She was. She also had very specific ideas about how things should be done. About legacy and the importance of appearances.”
Naomi nods slowly. “And she wanted you married.”
“She wanted me settled,” I correct. “Anchored. She believed that unmarried men were unpredictable, and they made decisions based on impulse rather than wisdom.”
“Was she right?”
I consider the question. “Perhaps. I've certainly made my share of impulsive decisions.”
“Like offering to fund my exhibit in exchange for a fake marriage?”
"Like that, yes,” I reply, a small smile appearing on my lips.
She laughs softly, the sound surprising us both. “At least you're honest about your impulses.”
“I try to be. It saves time.”
“Tell me about your father,” she requests.
The topic shift is subtle but significant. She's probing, trying to understand the family dynamics that led to this moment. I respect the intelligence behind the questions, even as they venture into territory I rarely discuss.
“He died when I was very young. Three years old.”
Her expression softens. “I'm sorry, Daniil.”
“It was a long time ago. I barely remember him,” waving a hand dismissively.
“That doesn't make it easier.”
There's genuine sympathy in her voice, and I find myself responding to it despite my better judgment. “No, it doesn't. My mother raised me alone. She was both parents, mentor, and business partner. She taught me everything I know about the company, leadership, and survival.”
“Survival?” she asks, removing her glasses and setting them on the table.
I realize I've revealed a bit more than intended. “Business can be cutthroat. Especially international business. There are always competitors and threats to what you've built.”
She nods, accepting the explanation. “Your mother wanted you to show stability to your business partners by having a wife?”
“There are certain circles where a married man is taken more seriously than a bachelor. Where family connections matter more than individual achievement.”
“And you think I can convincingly play that role?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with a skeptical tilt of her head.
“I think you can convincingly play any role you set your mind to.”
She blushes at the compliment, her fingers returning to drum against the table. “You don't really know me.”
“I know enough. I know you're intelligent, determined, and passionate about your work. I know you're brave enough to have this conversation with me despite knowing it's probably not the wisest choice.”
“You think talking to you is unwise?” she gasps in surprise.
I arch a brow. “I think getting involved with me is unwise. But sometimes unwise choices lead to the most interesting outcomes.”
She takes a bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “Do you have any siblings?”
“No. My mother wanted more children, but it never happened. She poured all her energy into the business and into preparing me to take over.”
“That must have been lonely.”
“I have cousins. Family friends. But yes, it was lonely at times.”
“So, this really is just business for you?” she muses, her gaze lingering on mine with genuine curiosity.
“Is that what you want it to be?” I question, leaning forward slightly, my eyes never leaving hers.
“I want to understand what I'm agreeing to,” she responds.
“You're agreeing to spend a weekend as my wife. To attend an event, meet some people, and play a role. In exchange, your exhibit gets funded, and you get the recognition you deserve.”
“And after the weekend?”
“After the weekend, we go back to our separate lives,” I say evenly.
“You really think I can make this work? Pretending we're married?”
“I think you'll surprise us both,” I smile.
She lets out a long breath, leaning back against the wrought iron chair. Around us, the museum continues its quiet rhythm as visitors murmur, footsteps echo, and the distant hum of climate control systems fills the air.
“I haven't said yes,” she counters.
“No,” I agree. “But you will.”
She studies me again, then picks up her sandwich and takes another bite. I let her eat in silence, giving her space to settle her mind. She eats it methodically, thinking through each bite. When she finishes, she brushes crumbs off her lap and meets my eyes again.
“If I agree, no physical—” she stops, flustered. “No intimacy.”
I lift a brow, amused. “Define intimacy.”
“Don't play games.”
“I need to know your boundaries if I'm to respect them.”
She flushes, color rising from her neck to her cheeks. “No kissing. No...touching. This is business.”
“Until it's not,” I mumble.
Her eyes widen with a hint of panic.
“I'm kidding,” I lie.
She shakes her head but doesn't move. Doesn't get up and run. The fact that she's still here, still engaging, tells me she's already halfway to yes, even if she doesn't realize it yet.
I stand, and she rises too, still watching me, unsure. The afternoon light glows through her hair, turning the auburn strands to copper.
“I'll send you the paperwork,” I declare. “Take your time. Think carefully. But know this, Naomi, what I'm offering isn't just a transaction. It's a door. One you've always wanted to walk through. And once you do, you won't want to turn back.”
I step close enough to catch the delicate scent of her perfume, feel the warmth of her skin, and see the amber flecks glinting in her brown eyes.
She doesn’t move.
My hand lifts, unhurried, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
I lean in slowly, letting my lips hover near hers, lingering at a breath’s distance to tempt and tease, before I shift at the last second and press a kiss to her cheek instead.
It isn’t forceful or demanding. Just a kiss.
Warm and intentional. The kind that changes the air between two people.
When I step back, her eyes are wide, her lips parted, and her breath caught in the space between reaction and realization. I leave her standing in the atrium, her pulse thrumming like the rhythm of my favorite song.