Chapter Six
The lock on her door yields to my key without a sound. A courtesy I extended myself, ensuring I could enter whenever the mood struck. It’s a necessity in my line of work. Control isn’t just about grand gestures; it’s about access.
Stepping inside, the air hits me differently than it does in my own penthouse. There, the air is sterile and filtered, recycled endlessly until it tastes like nothing. Here, it smells lived in. I smell vanilla, old coffee, and the faint, dusty scent of paper.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
“Freya?” I call out, not expecting an answer.
Silence greets me.
I move deeper into the apartment, my boots making no sound on the hardwood.
It’s clean, curated in a way that suggests she cares about appearances, but it’s personal.
A chaotic kind of order. Sketches are pinned to a corkboard near the window: fashion designs, architectural lines, fluid shapes that speak to a creative mind I hadn’t fully appreciated.
Fabric samples are draped over the back of a sofa, vibrant splashes of silk and velvet against the neutral tones. Mood boards lean against the wall, filled with torn-out magazine pages, color swatches, and photographs.
She builds things. She plans things.
I knew she was an influencer, a manager of events, but seeing the physical evidence of her work shifts my perspective. She’s not just a pretty face posting photos. She’s an architect.
That explains the exposé. It wasn’t just revenge; it was a project. She saw a narrative that didn’t fit and tried to edit it.
My eyes scan the room, looking for clues. A half-empty mug of coffee on the counter, still lukewarm. Her phone charger is gone.
She left in a hurry.
Annoyance pricks at the back of my neck. We have a schedule to keep. We have appearances to make. Her absence isn’t just a breach of protocol; it’s a breach of the agreement she made last night in the car.
Pulling out my own phone, I bring up the tracking app I installed on her device before we left the Met last night. A small red dot blinks on the map.
She’s not at a boutique or at a salon.
She’s near Washington Square Park.
Frowning, I stare at the location. It looks like she’s at a café. Who is she meeting?
Sliding the phone into my pocket, I turn and leave the apartment, locking the door behind me. The ride is short, but the traffic clogs the streets, slowing my progress. The irritation grows, festering into something sharper.
By the time the town car pulls up to the curb, I’m already running scenarios in my head. Did she run? Is she meeting a journalist? Is she foolish enough to think she can disappear on me?
The café is a hipster haunt with exposed brick and mismatched furniture. The smell of roasted beans is overpowering the air.
I step out of the car, adjusting my coat. I don’t rush. I never rush.
Through the large plate-glass window, I scan the room, and I see her.
She’s in the back corner, tucked away in a booth that offers a clear view of both the entrance and the street. Smart, but she’s not alone.
A man sits across from her. He’s leaning in, his body language intense, focused entirely on her. He’s not a friend. Friends don’t occupy each other’s space like that. He looks worn—messy hair, unshaven, wearing a jacket that’s seen better days.
Freya is listening, her expression unreadable.
Something hot and violent uncoils in my stomach.
I don’t recognize the man. I don’t need to. The fact that he exists is enough. The fact that she is sitting there, listening to him, keeping secrets from me, is a violation.
Pushing open the door, the bell chimes overhead. The noise of the café—a dull roar of conversation and espresso machines—fades for a split second as heads turn. They know who I am. Or they know what I am. Money radiates off me, and danger follows close behind.
I walk straight to the back.
Freya sees me first. Her head snaps up, her eyes widening in shock. She starts to stand, but I’m already there.
“Going somewhere?” I ask, my voice calm. Bored.
“Nikita,” she breathes, her face paling. “What are you doing here?”
The man across from her turns. He looks confused, then defensive. He’s slow. Dull.
“Who is this guy?” he demands, looking from her to me.
I ignore him completely. Keeping my eyes on Freya, I slide into the booth next to her, forcing her to scoot over. My thigh presses against hers, hard and possessive.
“We had a schedule,” I say, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My fingers brush her neck, feeling her pulse hammering against my skin. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I… I needed coffee,” she stammers. “I was just leaving.”
“Rafael DeLuca,” the man says, his voice rising. “I’m talking to you.”
Finally, I deign to look at him. He’s standing now, looming over the table, trying to use his height to intimidate me. It’s a rookie mistake.
“Sit down,” I tell him.
“Who the hell are you?” he spits, looking at Freya. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”
“She’s not seeing me,” I correct, turning my gaze back to him. The steel in my eyes makes him flinch. “She belongs to me.”
Rafael puffs out his chest, clearly an idiot who believes his own hype. “I don’t care who you think you are. Get away from her.”
He reaches for my shoulder, intending to push me or pull me up. Bad move.
I catch his wrist mid-air, twisting it sharply until he gasps, bending forward to relieve the pressure.
“I said sit down,” I repeat, my voice dropping an octave.
“Let go of him!” Freya cries, grabbing my arm.
Her touch is distracting, but I don’t let it break my focus. I shove Rafael back, and he stumbles, tripping over his own feet and crashing into the adjacent table. Chairs scrape, a coffee mug shatters on the floor.
The café goes silent.
Rafael scrambles up, his face red with humiliation and anger. He looks like he wants to come back for more, but the look in my eyes stops him. He knows. He finally understands that he’s out of his depth.
“Get out,” I say quietly.
He looks at Freya, pleading. “Freya?”
“Go, Rafael,” she says, her voice trembling. “Please. Just go.”
He hesitates, then nods, shooting me a glare that promises retribution he’ll never be able to deliver. He turns and leaves, pushing past the barista who’s coming to clean up the broken mug.
“Are you happy?” Freya hisses, turning on me. “You made a scene.”
“I didn’t make a scene,” I correct, standing up. “He did. I merely cleaned it up.”
Taking her arm, I guide her toward the door. She resists for a moment, her feet dragging, but she knows better than to make a struggle of it in public.
“My coat,” she says.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
We step out onto the street. The car is waiting, the door held open by the driver. I usher her inside and slide in after her. The divider goes up, sealing us in the dark, quiet interior.
She pulls away from me, pressing herself against the opposite door. She’s shaking, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“You’re insane,” she says, her voice cracking. “You can’t just… you can’t just attack people.”
“He put his hands on me,” I say calmly, checking my cuff links for imaginary lint. “He was disrespectful, and annoying.”
“He’s a friend!”
“He was a distraction,” I counter, finally looking at her. “You know better than to have distractions right now.”
“He wasn’t a distraction!” she yells, losing her composure. “He was… he was someone who could help me.”
“Help you with what?”
“With finding Ayaan!”
The name hangs in the air between us. I go still.
“He knew something,” she continues, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “He had information. You can’t just scare him off. He’s the only lead I have.”
I look at her, really look at her. She thinks she can gather clues like puzzle pieces and put together a picture of the truth.
It’s almost cute.
“He’s not a lead, Freya,” I say, my voice hardening. “He’s a liability, and I won’t have liabilities.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” she fires back.
“I do,” I say, leaning forward. The air in the car crackles. “I decide everything now. Remember? You agreed to this. You agreed to be mine. That means you don’t meet other men in secret, and you don’t chase ghost stories. You do what I say.”
“I agreed to play your fiancée!” she argues. “I didn’t agree to be your prisoner.”
“Same difference.”
She stares at me, her chest heaving. She’s furious, terrified, and incredibly alive. The fire in her eyes is captivating.
“This is just a performance,” she says, her voice trembling. “It’s fake. The engagement, the marriage… it’s all fake. You can’t actually control me.”
“Is that what you think?” I reach out, taking her hand. She tries to pull away, but I hold her tight. I pull her closer, until our knees are brushing, until she’s trapped in the circle of my arms.
“This isn’t a performance, milaya,” I murmur, my lips brushing her ear. “This is reality.”
“You can’t force me to marry you,” she breathes.
“I already have.”
Releasing her hand, I sit back against the leather seat.
“The wedding is in one week.”
She blinks at me, stunned. “A week? What? I… we haven’t even—”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I state. “The invitations are sent. The dress is being fitted.”
“I haven’t picked a dress!”
“You don’t need to. I picked one for you. It will be delivered tomorrow.”
She stares at me, mouth open, completely rendered speechless. It’s a satisfying look on her.
“You’re… you’re serious,” she whispers.
“I never joke about business,” I say. “This is the biggest business deal of my life.”
“Because of the exposé,” she says, finding her anger again. “You need to fix your reputation.”
“That,” I agree. “It shuts down the internal questions. The Bratva leadership likes stability. They like alliances. Marrying the sister of a… liability… sends a message. It shows that I can handle my problems.”
“Ayaan is not a liability!” she snaps.
“He is,” I say coldly. “Until he is found, or until the matter is settled, you are the collateral I’m holding onto.”
She recoils as if I’ve slapped her. “Collateral,” she repeats.
“Don’t look so wounded,” I say, watching her closely. “It’s better than being dead, and it’s certainly better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She looks away, staring out the window at the passing city. I can see the gears turning in her head. She’s trying to find a way out. She’s trying to find a loophole.
There isn’t one.
The car pulls up to the underground garage of my building. We ride the elevator up in silence. The air is thick with tension. When the doors open to the penthouse, she steps out, her posture stiff.
I follow her into the living space. It’s expansive and minimalist, all gray. Everything is in its place. Nothing is out of order.
She stops in the middle of the room, looking around. It’s the first time she’s really seen it.
“It’s very… gray,” she observes.
“It’s efficient,” I correct.
Walking to the bar, I pour two fingers of vodka. I don’t offer her any. She doesn’t need it.
“It’s late. You can sleep in the guest room tonight,” I say, turning to face her. “Tomorrow, you go home and start packing. After the wedding, you move in with me.”
Her head snaps up. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“You will,” I say simply. “We are engaged to be married. We are expected to share a bed. If your room is separate, rumors will start. I won’t have rumors.”
“I don’t care about rumors.”
“I do.”
“I’m not sleeping with you, Nikita,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You can drag me to the altar, you can put a ring on my finger, but you can’t make me share a bed with you.”
I walk over to her, stopping inches away. She holds her ground, but I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
“We’ll see,” I say softly.
Reaching out, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trail down her neck to her shoulder. She shivers, but she doesn’t pull away.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Freya,” I murmur. “You think you’re so smart. You think you can use me to find your brother, but you’re forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m the one holding the cards.” I let my hand drop, stepping back. “Now, go to your room. I have work to do.”
She hesitates, then turns and walks away. I watch her go, admiring the sway of her hips, the stubborn set of her shoulders.
Alone in the quiet room, I pour the rest of the vodka down the drain. The alcohol isn’t what I need.
My mind is still on the café. On the way she looked at that man. Rafael. The familiarity. The desperation.
Irritation flares again, hotter this time.
I don’t like sharing my toys, and I certainly don’t like them having secrets.
Sitting down at the desk, I pull up the feed from the hallway cameras. Freya is walking down the corridor, her head down. She enters the guest room and closes the door.
She thinks she’s safe in there. She thinks she has privacy. If only she knew the truth.
Pulling out my phone, I dial a number. “Yuri.”
“Sir?”
“Run a background check on a Rafael DeLuca,” I say. “Financials, associates, family. I want to know everything. He’s been talking to my fiancée.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Find out who he’s working for,” I add, staring at the grainy image of Freya on the screen. “Bring him to me. Quietly.”
“Understood.”
Hanging up, I toss the phone onto the desk.
Running a hand through my hair, I feel the tension in my shoulders. This marriage… it solves so many problems. It appeases the Pakhan. It neutralizes the press. It secures my borders.
Except it’s creating a new problem.
Freya challenges me. In a world of yes-men and sycophants, she dares to say no. She dares to look me in the eye and lie to my face.
It’s intoxicating. And it’s dangerous.