Chapter 7 #3
She sucked in a sharp breath, eyes going huge. "You want me to... pretend to be your fiancée? Are you serious? You're a Russian mob boss. You need to get married? What is this, a bad '80s movie?"
"I know you need money." I ignored her mockery, coldly laying out my offer. "Your mother's medical bills. Next month's rent. I know that bald editor just fired you. You need money badly."
Her face darkened instantly, murderous. "How do you know that?"
"I know everything, Vivienne." I looked down at her. "I also know your father's dead. Your mother's in that expensive facility. You're alone in this city. No one would claim your body."
She went rigid but didn't back down.
"Why me?" She stared at me like I was insane. "Because I'm cheap labor? Or because I know all Derek's dirty secrets?"
"Because you're perfect." I locked eyes with her, enunciating each word. "You're smart. Beautiful enough to shut up those old fossils. And you've got leverage. Most importantly, you hate Derek. You'll play this role because you want to watch him burn too."
I closed the distance again until my breath hit her face. "One year. Pretend to be my fiancée. Show up where I need you. Smile for the cameras. In return, I'll clear all your debts. Medical bills, rent, everything. And I'll make that bald piece of shit Gary disappear from this city completely."
Her pupils contracted sharply. She hadn't expected the threat in my tone. Or this kind of offer.
"You're blackmailing me," she said quietly, voice shaking.
"I'm giving you a solution," I corrected.
"Of course, feel free to refuse." I paused, voice dropping to freezing.
"But then... I'll make sure everyone knows your little scene at the wedding was fake.
What do you think Derek will do when he finds out his ex climbed into his brother's bed?
Don't forget—our family runs deep. Even if Derek's a weak little shit, he's still got mob blood in him.
Think it over, firecracker. It's a good deal. Just one year."
She bit her lip hard, face pale. Calculating. Weighing her options. The vulnerability mixed with strength in her expression made her look fragile and tough at once. Similar to her face when she came, but slightly different.
My cock stirred.
Damn. I wanted to bend her over that table again, fuck into her tight little cunt until that sharp mouth couldn't say anything but yes.
Suddenly, she lifted her head. Those green eyes reignited with that familiar, defiant fire.
"Fine, Volkov." She spat my name like an insult. "I'll be your fake wife. But I have conditions."
Oh, spicy.
I raised an eyebrow, gesturing for her to continue.
"First," she held up one finger, tone like a negotiating criminal, "you let me write you into my novel. All of it. The mob stuff. The rich stuff. This is my material now. You're my muse."
I almost laughed out loud. "Deal."
"Second," she raised a second finger, voice dropping lower, eyes gleaming with viciousness, "you said you'd handle my problems, right? Then I want you to throw Gary in a sack and beat the shit out of him. Beat him so bad his own mother won't recognize him."
That caught me off guard. I'd expected jewelry, freedom, or a promise I wouldn't touch her. Instead, she wanted me as her guinea pig and to pulverize some irrelevant scumbag?
A deep, genuinely amused laugh rumbled from my chest.
Interesting. This woman was ten thousand times more entertaining than I'd imagined.
"Deal." I stopped laughing, agreeing easily to her two absurd conditions.
She stuck out her hand like a businesswoman. "Then it's settled, Mr. Volkov."
I didn't shake her hand. I grabbed her wrist, yanked her into my chest, cupped the back of her head, and ran my thumb over her swollen lips.
"Good. Tonight I'll have my lawyer send over the contract."
"Good," she replied breathlessly, not struggling. "Oh, and the contract doesn't include fucking, right?"
"Of course not. But if you want it, I'm happy to oblige." She rolled her eyes.
My brain was already mapping next steps. Have Sasha draft an NDA immediately. Get her a wardrobe. Introduce her to those old bastards. This would be chaos.
She pushed me off, sat up, and started fixing herself in the mirror.
"So when do I move in with you? Tomorrow?"
I froze. "Move in?"
"Yeah," she slung her bag over her shoulder, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost offensive. "Please don't tell me the mob boss is planning some 'separate residences' fiancé situation. You live in your secret lair, and I take the subway over to clock in every day? That's ridiculous."
I was stunned for a full second.
Me. Nikolai Volkov. Just got lectured on "ridiculous" by a freshly unemployed magazine assistant.
I hadn't felt this caught off guard, this verbally demolished, in years.
Watching her stand there all self-righteous, even a little challenging, a laugh forced its way up from deep in my throat.
Perfect. Excellent.
I looked at her hard, my grin spreading wider.
I suddenly realized that the next year with this woman around was going to be anything but boring.