Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Calina
I wake up slowly to an empty bed.
The space beside me is cold. Maxim isn’t here. For a second, I feel a strange pang of disappointment, which I immediately shove down hard.
I should be grateful. I don’t have to face the awkward morning-after conversation like yesterday. No pretending last night didn’t happen. No dealing with the memory of his body pressed against mine, his hands on me, his mouth claiming me.
But then why does my body miss the warmth? Why do I keep remembering how it felt to have my head resting on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat when I woke up yesterday morning?
Get over yourself, Calina.
I can’t fall for him. I won’t. Men like Maxim don’t do love. They take. They use. They break hearts and move on.
Whatever happened between us last night was just physical for him. A moment of weakness on my part. For him, it would’ve been nothing more than sex. I need to protect myself. I need to guard my heart.
I force myself out of bed, shower quickly, and get dressed in one of the proper outfits I bought during the shopping trip with the girls.
When I head downstairs, the house feels unusually quiet. No sign of Maxim. No Viktor. No Dmitri. The staff moves around silently, but the main areas are empty.
I pour myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. My appetite still hasn’t returned, so I tell Olga I’ll eat later. I sip the hot liquid slowly, wondering where Maxim is. It's just past 7 a.m., he usually doesn't leave for work this early.
Did he even come back to the bedroom last night? I think back to Viktor's rude comment. I guess I should have seen that coming after I pulled that stunt of coming downstairs half-naked. He really does hate me.
My heart warms at the way Maxim defended me. I hate to come between Maxim and his men, but Viktor had no right.
Thinking about Maxim, makes me want to see him, and for some reason I can’t explain, my feet carry me toward his office. Maybe he’s in there.
I stop in front of the heavy wooden door, and knock, hoping he’s inside.
No response.
I try the handle. To my surprise, the door opens easily. For a room he’s so strict about keeping everyone out of, he doesn’t even bother locking it.
I know he warned me about coming in here, but I can't seem to help myself. I walk over to the massive desk and sit in his chair, feeling strangely bold.
I sift through some of the papers, not really knowing what I’m looking for. Anything that will tell me more about the man I’m about to marry. I try turning on the laptop, but it’s password-protected. Of course.
My eyes catch on the same folder from before, the one about the orphanages. The one I barely glimpsed last time, before he caught me.
I open it. And inside, I find page after page of anonymous donations. Large sums sent to multiple orphanages across the city and even a few in Russia. The detailed record show they are from him.
This is a side of Maxim I never expected to see. This makes him feel more human. More real.
But then guilt hits me. This feels like breaching his privacy. He clearly wants this part of himself hidden, that’s why the donations are anonymous. I close the folder quickly, suddenly uncomfortable.
I shouldn’t be here.
I slip out of the office and head back to the kitchen for breakfast. After eating, I go upstairs and start arranging my things in his massive walk-in closet, placing my clothes next to his suits and shirts.
The sight of our belongings side by side makes my stomach flutter. This is becoming real.
I’m really going to marry him. This house, this room, this life. It’s becoming mine whether I want it or not.
In the afternoon, I finally decide to go wedding dress shopping with Milana, Kira and Irina. We hit several wedding designer boutiques before I finally find what I actually like.
All three women actually had tears in their eyes when I walked out in it. Though it needs to be altered in certain areas, the boutique’s in-house seamstress, assures me they will have it ready before the wedding.
I spend the rest of the day, drinking bottomless mimosas with the ladies, and putting final touches to the wedding planning.
By evening, when I get back to the estate, I'm a little disappointed when I find out that Maxim still isn't home. I push the feeling away, and decide to change into something more comfortable and see if I can trick Olga into allowing me to prepare dinner.
I'm stepping out of the closet when the bedroom door opens.
Maxim walks in looking rugged and unfairly handsome. His dark blond hair is rumpled, like he’s been running his fingers through it all day, and his eyes carry the heavy exhaustion of someone who hasn’t slept enough.
His shirt is slightly wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, revealing those strong, tattooed forearms. Even tired, he's still striking.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He gives me a short nod. “Hi. Get dressed. We have to go out.”
I blink. “We’re going out?”
“We have an event to attend. The Pantheon dinner is tonight. The president specifically requested your presence.”
“You’re just telling me now? You couldn’t have given me a heads-up?” I guess he's still an ass.
He shrugs, already loosening his tie. “It escaped me. Could you just go get dressed? We're already running late.”
I want to argue, but the look on his face tells me it’s not optional. “Fine. I need something to wear.”
“No need to worry,” he says, walking over to the closet and pulling out a large white box I didn't notice earlier. “I already got you a dress.”
He hands it to me. I open the box and lift out a stunning green gown. The fabric is luxurious, with subtle embellishments that catch the light, and a fitted silhouette that flares slightly at the bottom.
This dress wasn't there when I arranged my things in the closet this morning. Did he send it while I was out?
I check the size, it's perfect.
“How did you know my size?” I ask, surprised.
He doesn’t answer, just gives me that intense look. “Is the dress okay?”
I nod, a little dazed. “It’s beautiful.”
“Good. Get ready. We leave in forty minutes.”
He heads into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear the shower running. I quickly move, pulling out everything I need.
I do my hair in a sleek updo and apply makeup as fast as I can. I can refuse to go with him for not letting me know on time, but I know this is important for him. And I can't explain why, but I want to help him.
When I slip into the gown, it fits like it was made for me. I look… powerful.
By the time Maxim steps out of the bathroom, dressed in a fresh black suit that makes him look every inch the dangerous Pakhan, I’m ready.
“How is the wound?” I ask as we head downstairs and into the waiting car.
“Getting better. Thanks to my nurse.”
A smile spreads across my lips as we get into the car.
The Society dinner is being held in an opulent, secluded venue, a grand hall filled with the elite of the elite.
Presidents, governors, senators, high-ranking ministers, top politicians, notorious criminals, and powerful CEOs all move through the room.
The moment we step inside, with my hand resting on Maxim’s arm, I feel the shift. Heads turn. Conversations quiet, their eyes flicking curiously to me on his arm. I keep a polite smile on my face.
Maxim’s hand settles possessively on my lower back as we move through the crowd. I can feel eyes on us. And for the first time, I understand just how much this marriage is changing things for him.
Eventually, we’re guided to our assigned table. It’s a long, elegant setup near the front, already occupied by several older men and their much younger wives.
Not long after we sit, the conversation around the table begins to turn my stomach.
These men are misogynistic fools, talking about women like we’re livestock to be bought, bred, and shown off.
One man in particular, a portly, balding businessman with a Michelin-tire belly straining against his shirt, is the loudest. He’s here with a woman who looks young enough to be his daughter, hanging on every word he says.
“A real woman knows her place,” he booms, waving his wine glass, spit flying out of his mouth.
“She keeps her body tight for her husband, stays out of men’s business, and gives him strong sons.
None of this modern nonsense about ‘independence.’ Women today are too opinionated.
They forget their only real value is between their legs and in the kitchen. ”
His mistress giggles nervously. A few other men at the table chuckle in agreement, throwing in their own crude remarks about women’s bodies, obedience, and how a “proper wife” should look and behave.
I grip the stem of my wine glass so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t snap. I try to hold my tongue. I really do.
But after another vile comment about how women should “know when to shut up and spread their legs,” I can’t stay silent anymore.
“So, you’re basically afraid of powerful women but call it “traditional” to make yourself feel better,” I say, voice cutting through the table like a knife.
The table falls deathly silent.
The man’s face turns an ugly shade of red. One of the others stares at me in shock. “Perhaps your fiancé hasn’t taught you your place yet, girl. Women in our circles are meant to be seen, not heard. So shut up.”
He turns to Maxim with a condescending smirk. “You should train her better, Orlov. A wife like that needs a firm hand.”
I feel Maxim’s hand on my thigh under the table, squeezing once, a warning or support, I’m not sure. His other hand tightens into a fist on the tablecloth.
“If you like your wives boring and obedient, gentlemen, it’s your loss.” He turns towards the man who spoke. “And if you ever speak to my fiancée like that again,” Maxim says, voice low and deadly calm, “the blood on your plate won’t be from your undercooked steak. It’ll be your own.”
The man chuckles nervously, thinking it’s a joke.
Maxim leans forward. “Think it's a joke? Try me. Say one more disrespectful word about her and we’ll test that theory right now.”
The man pales. The entire table goes quiet. No one dares speak.
Maxim turns to him. “Apologize to her. Now.”
The man stammers out a weak apology. I don’t even acknowledge it. I push my chair back and stand.
“Excuse me,” I say coldly. “I need to use the powder room.”
I walk away with my head high, heart pounding, feeling every eye at the table on me.
The moment I step into the ladies’ restroom, I let out a shaky breath and grip the edge of the marble counter, staring at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright with anger.
I know I shouldn’t have spoken up like that. In our world, women are expected to smile politely and stay silent while men talk about things like that.
But I couldn’t. Men like that, the ones who reduce women to bodies and breeding stock, are exactly why things never change. Why so many of us are still treated like objects instead of people.
The door opens behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. The air shifts the second he enters.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, still facing the mirror. “In case you can’t read, it says ‘Ladies’ Room.’”
“I can read just fine,” Maxim replies, voice low and calm. He steps closer until I can feel the heat of him at my back. “What are you doing?”
I finally turn to face him, arms crossed tightly over my chest. “Are you here to punish me? Because I spoke when I was supposed to stay quiet like a good little wife?”
His dark eyes search mine. Instead of anger, there’s something hotter. Hungrier.
“Do you want to be punished?” he murmurs, stepping even closer until my back presses against the counter.
My breath catches. The air between us crackles, heat pooling low in my belly, my pulse racing under my skin.
“I shouldn’t have to stay quiet while those pigs talk about women like we’re cattle. If you’re going to drag me to these events, you should know I won’t sit there and smile while they degrade us. Maybe it’s better if I just stay home next time so I don’t disgrace you.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His touch is surprisingly gentle, but his eyes burn.
“You didn’t disgrace me,” he says quietly. “That fat idiot deserved every word. He’s a fool.”
The validation hits me harder than I expect. A small, warm spark lights in my chest. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that from him.
He steps fully into my space now, one hand sliding to my waist, the other cupping the back of my neck. His body presses lightly against mine, trapping me against the counter. The heat of him is overwhelming.
“I want you there,” he says, voice dropping to a rough whisper.
His thumb strokes slowly along my jaw. My lips part. I can feel his breath on my lips. My body leans into him, craving contact.
He leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to kiss you on that table and show every man in that room exactly how proud I am of you for putting that bastard in his place.”
A shiver runs through me. My thighs press together instinctively.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark with desire. “Tell me to stop, Calina.”
I don’t.
Instead, I rise onto my toes and crash my mouth against his.
The kiss is rough, desperate, all the built-up tension exploding between us. He groans into my mouth, one hand fisting in my hair as he takes control, devouring me. His other hand grips my hip, pulling me flush against him so I can feel how hard he is.
He lifts me, setting me on the marble countertop. My legs part instinctively as he steps between them, never breaking the kiss. His hands slide up my thighs, pushing the fabric of my dress higher.
I moan against his lips, lost in the heat, the taste, the sheer intensity of him.