Chapter Three
The door to my apartment clicks shut, and for the first time in hours, the noise stops. I lean back against the wood paneling, letting out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my lungs since the moment Nikita Gromov stepped into my orbit.
I kick off my heels, one by one. They land with a heavy thud on the hardwood floor. My feet throb, but the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the mess inside my head.
I walk to the floor-length mirror in the hallway, barely recognizing the woman staring back. The emerald dress is still perfect, the makeup still intact, but my eyes… they look haunted.
I look at my hand.
The ring sits there, heavy and pale.
“Ayaan,” I whisper, the sound barely audible.
I twist the metal, trying to pull it off. It slides over my knuckle but gets stuck at the base, stubborn and tight. I tug harder, wincing as the metal bites into my skin, but it refuses to budge. It’s like it’s fused to me. A brand.
I stop trying and let my hand drop.
The logic is cold and undeniable. Ayaan never took that ring off. It was a gift from our father before he died. If Nikita had it, Ayaan isn’t just missing. He’s gone. Or worse—he’s a trophy.
Then, why the show? Why the engagement? If he’s dead, there’s no sense keeping me alive. Unless…
Unless Ayaan isn’t dead.
The thought hits me so hard I have to grip the edge of the console table to steady myself. If Ayaan is alive, and Nikita has his ring, then he’s a prisoner. Or a traitor. Or leverage.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This isn’t over. It’s not even close.
I stride into the kitchen, needing to move, needing to do something to burn off the adrenaline. I rip the dress off, letting it pool on the floor, and pull on an oversized sweater from the dryer. Then I pace the length of the living room, replaying the night in my head.
He didn’t panic when I confronted him. He didn’t even get angry. He just… adapted. He took the hit I landed and turned it into a win. He took my exposé, my moment of triumph, and rewrote the script so thoroughly that I ended up playing the lead in his twisted fairy tale.
Damage control. That’s what it was. Pure, strategic damage control.
By announcing our engagement, he made my article look like the work of a scorned lover rather than an investigative journalist. He invalidated my credibility in a single sentence.
If I deny it now, I look unhinged. If I confirm it, I’m trapped in his narrative.
He boxed me in. Socially, professionally, emotionally.
God, he’s smart. Smarter than I gave him credit for. I thought I was hunting a monster, but I walked right into the spider’s web. Now, I’m wearing the ring to prove it.
The buzzer rings, startling a yelp out of me.
I check the security camera and see that it’s Davina.
I buzz her in instantly, relief washing over me. I need someone normal. Someone who doesn’t smell like leather and gun oil.
Davina bursts through the door a minute later, her dark hair a chaotic halo around her head, her eyes wide with frantic energy. She’s holding two bottles of wine like she’s preparing for a siege.
“Okay, I’m here, I’m here, and I have Pinot,” she says, setting the bottles down on the counter. “Don’t tell me anything until I’m poured.”
She pours us both generous glasses, her hands shaking slightly. She’s not usually this jittery. Davina’s the calm one, the one who rolls her eyes at drama.
She thrusts a glass into my hand. “Okay. Spill. The internet is exploding. Everyone says you’re engaged to the Russian Mob. Please tell me this is a prank. Did you hire an actor? Is he an escort? Because he is… disturbingly hot, in a serial killer kind of way.”
I take a long gulp of the wine, the crisp liquid doing nothing to dampen the fire in my veins. I look at my best friend, wanting to tell her everything. I want to tell her about Ayaan, about the ring, about the terror gnawing at my insides.
The words stick in my throat. How do I explain that I’m engaged to a man who might have killed my brother? How do I explain that I’m playing along because I think that brother might still be alive?
“It’s… complicated,” I say finally, my voice sounding thin.
“Complicated?” Davina repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Freya, you walked into a gala planning to ruin a man and walked out with a ring on your finger. So tell me what the deal is.”
I force a laugh, but it sounds hollow. “I know it’s crazy. I just… I got caught up in the moment. He’s very persuasive.”
She studies me, her dark eyes narrowing. She knows me too well. I think she must see the tension in my shoulders, the way I can’t stop fidgeting with the stem of my glass.
“You’re shaking,” she says softly.
“I’m just tired. It’s been a long night.”
“Freya.” She sets her glass down and steps closer, gripping my shoulders. “You’re scaring me. What did he do? Did he threaten you?”
I look at her and for a second, almost breaking. Then I remember the way Nikita looked at me, the possessiveness there. If I drag Davina into this, she becomes a target.
“No,” I lie, hating myself for it. “He didn’t threaten me. It was… a misunderstanding that got out of hand.”
“A misunderstanding?” She lets go of me, skepticism written all over her face. “Okay. So, what’s the plan, you’re going to fake a breakup tomorrow?”
“I…” I trail off.
I walk to the window, needing to look at something other than Davina’s piercing gaze. The street below is quiet, bathed in the yellow glow of streetlights.
And then I see a black SUV parked across the street. It’s idling, the exhaust puffing white in the cold air. It’s invisible to anyone not looking for it, but to me, it screams Bratva.
My stomach drops. They followed me?
“Freya.” Davina comes up behind me. “What is it?”
I turn to her, my mind racing. I need to get her out of here. Now.
“You need to go,” I say, my voice sharp.
“What, why?”
“Just go, Davina. Please.” I steer her toward the door, grabbing her coat and shoving it into her arms. “I have a headache, and I need to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Hey, stop.” She pulls away from me, planting her feet. “You’re acting weird. Is someone watching us?”
She turns to the window, looking down at the street. I see her spot the SUV. She stiffens. “Is that for you?” she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“It’s fine,” I say, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the door. “Just security. Nikita is… overprotective.”
“Overprotective?” She looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Freya, this isn’t normal. You need to call the police.”
“No police.” The words come out too fast, too harsh. I soften my tone, trying to reassure her. “Davina, please. Just trust me. Go home, lock your door, and pretend you never saw that car. I’ll handle this.”
She looks at the SUV, then back at me. I see the fear warring with her loyalty. Finally, she nods.
“If you’re not at brunch tomorrow, I’m coming back with a shotgun,” she warns.
“I’ll be there,” I promise.
I usher her out and lock the door behind her, leaning my forehead against the cool wood. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I wait until I see her walk down the street, turn the corner, and disappear. Then I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk back to the window.
The SUV is still there.
I don’t hesitate. I definitely don’t let myself think about the stupidity of what I’m about to do. I just grab my keys, stuff my feet into a pair of combat boots, and march out the door.
The night air is biting, nipping at my exposed skin, but I don’t feel the cold. I only feel a singular, burning focus. I cross the street, my boots crunching on the pavement.
The back window of the SUV rolls down as I approach.
I pull the handle and climb into the backseat.
The smell hits me instantly, that familiar scent of leather and cold air. Nikita is sitting there, one arm draped along the back of the seat, looking annoyingly relaxed. He’s changed out of the leather jacket into a dark coat, but the steel-gray eyes are the same. Calculating. Waiting.
“Took you long enough,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “I was about to send up a flare.”
“Go to hell,” I snap, buckling my seat belt with aggressive jerks.
The divider between the front and back seats is up. It’s just the two of us in the dark, confined space.
“I see you kept the ring,” he notes, glancing at my hand.
I shove my hand under my thigh, hiding it. “It’s stuck.”
“Is it?” He smirks, a ghost of a smile that makes my blood boil. “Oh, well.”
“Why are you here, Nikita?” I turn to him, refusing to be intimidated. “Did you come to gloat? To make sure I’m sticking to the script?”
“I’m here because you caused a disruption,” he says, his tone shifting from teasing to business.
“You rattled the cage, Freya. Now the animals are restless. My partners are nervous, and my competitors are sensing weakness. You don’t poke a sleeping bear and then act surprised when it wakes up hungry. ”
“You’re not a bear,” I spit back. “You’re a parasite. You feed on people like Ayaan and leave nothing but bones.”
His eyes darken. The air in the car suddenly feels heavier, charged with a dangerous voltage.
“Watch your mouth,” he says softly. “You’re in my car, on my time. Remember that.”
“I remember everything,” I say, my voice trembling with rage. “I remember how you ruined my life tonight. I remember how you put that ring on my finger like you own me.”
“I do own you,” he corrects, leaning forward. His face inches from mine, close enough that I can see the darker ring of gray around his iris. “The moment you stepped into my world, you became mine. You wanted to play a game? Congratulations. You’re on the board.”
I glare at him, refusing to back down. “Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb. Ayaan.” I point at his hand, the ring catching the light from the streetlamp outside. “You have his ring. Where is my brother?”
Nikita looks at the ring, his expression unreadable. For a second, I think I see a flicker of something—regret? Annoyance?—but it’s gone before I can identify it.
“I don’t know who that is,” he says, his voice flat.
“Bullshit.”
He shrugs, leaning back against the leather seat. “I don’t know what to tell you, Freya. I run a logistics company. We move cargo. Sometimes people get lost in the shuffle. It’s a big city.”
“You expect me to believe that?” I laugh, a harsh, incredulous sound. “You have his ring! He never took it off! You either took it off his corpse or you took it off his living body. Which is it?”
He looks at me, his gaze heavy and assessing. He’s not rattled. He’s not rushing to defend himself. He’s just… watching.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you’ve been reading too many crime novels. Not everything is a conspiracy.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I say, my voice cracking. “I know he was in trouble. I know he owed money to the Bratva.”
“Bratva.” He rolls the word around like it’s a foreign concept. “You throw that word around like it means something. It’s just a bogeyman for people who can’t handle their own mistakes.”
“You’re the mistake,” I say, lunging for him.
I expect him to stop me. I expect him to grab my wrists or shove me back, but he doesn’t move. Nikita lets me grab the collar of his coat, lets me shake him, my knuckles white with tension.
Our faces are inches apart. I can feel his breath, warm and steady, against my cheek. He’s so calm it makes me want to scream.
“Tell me the truth,” I whisper, my eyes searching his. “Just give me that.”
“I am,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that matches mine. “I don’t know your brother.”
He’s lying. I know it. He knows I know it, but the lie is so clean, so practiced, that it’s terrifying. He’s blocked me out. He’s built a wall I can’t breach.
I let go of him, slumping back against the seat. Defeat washes over me, cold and suffocating. I can’t force him to talk. I can’t make him tell me the truth. I have nothing.
Except this.
I look around the car, at the expensive leather, at the silent driver, at the man who holds my life in his hands. He wants to control the narrative? He wants to fix the disruption I caused?
Fine.
Let him think he won.
I take a deep breath, centering myself. I push the anger down, burying it deep where it can’t be used against me. I wipe the tears from my eyes, refusing to let him see me cry.
“Okay,” I say, my voice steady. “You want me to play the fiancée? You want me to fix your reputation?”
I turn to him, meeting his gaze head-on.
“I’ll do it.”
He raises an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his face. “You will?”
“I will.” I lift my chin. “On my terms. I’m not some puppet you can parade around. If I’m going to be your wife, I’m going to be involved. I want access. I want to know what’s really going on in your company.”
He studies me, his eyes narrowing. He’s looking for the trap. He’s looking for the angle.
“Why would I agree to that?” he asks.
“You need me,” I say, hitting him with the truth. “You said it yourself. I caused a disruption. The only way to fix it is to make the story believable. If I’m miserable, if I’m distant, people will notice. If I’m invested, if I’m supportive? They’ll believe it.”
I lean forward, mimicking his earlier move, getting into his space.
“Let me in, Nikita,” I whisper. “Let me help you. Maybe… maybe I’ll stop digging into the past.”
It’s a massive, reckless gamble, but it’s the only card I have left.
He watches me for a long, agonizing moment. I hold his gaze, letting him see the resolve there. Finally, he smiles. It’s a slow, predatory curve of his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Deal.”
Good. I’m going to find out exactly what happened to my brother, even if I have to burn Nikita Gromov’s empire to the ground to do it.