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"I understand your hesitancy," he says, his voice low and soothing. His eyes hold mine, and I'm trapped in their depths, unable to look away. "But being my wife will open many doors for you."
I listen, half-dazed, as he outlines the benefits of the arrangement. "Your nonprofit will be a success from the start with the connections I can provide. And beyond that, you'll never have to worry about finances."
It's too much to try and process all at once. The practical side of me that's always planning and preparing, can see the logic in his words. The connections, the financial security, they're things I've dreamed of for my nonprofit, for the legacy I want to build in my mother's memory.
But then he adds something that sends a jolt through me. "If you wish to divorce after our child is grown, I'll ensure that you're well taken care of." The words hang in the air like an unwanted promise, a future so different from anything I've ever envisioned for myself.
Divorce. The word echoes in my mind. He's planning not only for our marriage and our child, but for the potential end of it all. It's so like him to think ten steps ahead, to plan for every contingency.
I'm torn between admiration for his foresight and a pang of sadness at the clinical nature of it all. Marriage, in my mind, has always been about love, about finding someone to share my life with, not a strategic partnership with exit strategies.
Sitting there with his hand still holding mine, I feel a swirl of emotions. Excitement, fear, confusion, and a strange sense of intrigue. My enigmatic boss is offering me a life that's both a dream and a challenge.
The practicalities, the benefits, they're alluring. But the personal cost, the emotional investment, that's a price I'm not sure I'm ready to pay. And yet as I sit with him, feeling the heat from his hand, listening to his well-reasoned proposal, I can't help but wonder what if?
A realization hits me like a cold wave, washing away the warmth that his touch had brought. He's not just asking for my hand in marriage; he's asking for decades of my life. The intimacy of the moment, the connection I thought I felt, all evaporate under the harsh light of this understanding.
He sees this, us, me, as nothing more than a transaction, a means to an end. The romantic, the dreamer in me, recoils at the thought. I can't just switch off my feelings and compartmentalize my life into neat, emotionless boxes like he does.
I'm a human, not a chess piece in his strategic game of life.
Gently, but with a firm resolve, I withdraw my hand from his. I need space, time to think and to process this proposition that's anything but romantic.
I open my mouth, ready to tell him that I'm taking the day off, that I need time to consider his offer and what it means for my future. But before the words can leave my lips, there's a knock on the office door.
Chapter 9
Ivan
Asudden knock at my office door gives me a jolt, shattering the delicate conversation with Julie. Such interruptions are unheard of in my rigorously controlled schedule, each minute accounted for, each meeting meticulously planned.
A sense of foreboding washes over me as I rise, offering Julie a brief, terse nod, an unspoken signal that something unexpected is afoot.
My heart rate quickens as I stride toward the door, a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. In my world, surprises are rarely pleasant, often harbingers of trouble. As I reach out and grasp the cool metal of the doorknob, a knot forms in the pit of my stomach, a primal instinct warning me of danger lurking on the other side.
I pull the door open, and my worst fears materialize before my eyes. Standing in the doorway, exuding a dangerous aura, are figures ripped straight from a chapter of my life I thought I had closed for good.
Two Russian gangsters with cold, calculating eyes, subtle bulges of concealed weapons beneath their shirts, are a clear threat, a reminder of a world I left behind.
And standing between them looms a ghost from my past. None other than Boris Abramov, the head of the Bratva I once served.
However, Boris has changed. The strong, intimidating figure I remember now replaced by a man who's let himself go. His once lean frame is now bulky, his suit straining against the added weight. His face, previously sharp and cunning, is now flushed with signs of overindulgence.
But his eyes, cold and calculating, haven't changed. They still hold a hint of the man who once commanded fear and respect in the circles we ran in.
The air around the men feels charged, the atmosphere heavy with the unspoken threats they bring.
"Greetings, Ivan," Boris says, his voice heavy with an accent that takes me back to my homeland. His eyes scan the room behind me, taking in the details with a predator's interest.
I stand in the doorway, a barrier between them and my world, a world that includes Julie, sitting just a few feet away. My mind races, calculating the potential reasons for this unexpected visit, the implications it carries, none of them good.
"Hello, Boris," I reply, my tone controlled, giving nothing away. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" My words are carefully chosen, a blend of caution and veiled hostility. The Bratva is not an entity one trifles with, and Boris’ presence here is a clear indication that the past is not as buried as I'd hoped.
He smirks, a hint of the cunning man I remember so well flickering in his eyes. "Oh, Ivan, can't an old friend stop by to catch up?" His words are light, but they carry a weight, a hidden meaning that's not lost on me. “You remember Sergei?”
Oh, I remember him alright. “Let’s talk outside,” I say, nodding down the hallway. “There’s a conference room where we can—”
Boris, still an imposing figure despite his deteriorated state, has other plans. He brushes past me with the arrogance of a man used to taking up space, stepping into my office uninvited.
