Good.
When the date finally ended, relief crept in so fast it almost made me smile. He walked me back to the car, his palm hoveringat my lower back like he expected praise for not grabbing me outright. Even that almost-touch made my skin crawl.
During the drive, his hand slowly slid onto my thigh. My stomach tightened. I shifted my leg away immediately, pretending to look out the window so he wouldn’t see the flash of disgust on my face.
He chuckled like it was a harmless joke. Like I was being coy.
I just counted the minutes until I could get out of the car.
At the mansion gates, he hurried around to open my door, all manners and practiced charm. He walked me up the steps, stopped just before the entrance, and let his hand trail along my arm, his fingers dragging over the fabric of my jacket. “I enjoyed tonight very much,” he said, still stroking my arm. “You were beautiful. I look forward to our next date.”
I stepped back, trying to keep it polite.
“Thank you for tonight,” I said softly. “But... I don’t think we’re the right match. I hope you understand.”
The shift was immediate.
His fingers snapped around my arm like a trap, yanking me toward him. He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear.
“You misunderstood how this works,” he said quietly. “I didn’t come here to be dismissed. This is an arrangement. And you will play your part.”
My breath caught. The act vanished so fast it turned my stomach. Gone was the awkward suitor—this was the monster underneath grinning.
“Let go of me,” I said.
For a second, I wasn’t sure he would. Then he released me abruptly, stepping back like he’d done me a favor.
He smiled again, but it was sharp now. Mean.
“Next time, don’t dress like you’re advertising,” he said. “I want a wife, not a nightclub escort.”
The tears came before I could stop them, hot and humiliating against my skin.
I turned, opened the door, and walked inside fast. My chest hurt as I climbed the stairs, breath hitching, mascara blurring my vision.
“Kira.”
I didn’t stop.
“Malaya.”
I turned then—and saw Maksym.
He was stepping out of my father’s office, jacket still on, face unreadable. His eyes flicked to my face, took in the tears, the shaking hands. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His fingers flexed once at his sides before going still.
“What happened?” he asked. Controlled. Flat.
“Why do you care?” I snapped.
“Tell me what he did.”
I laughed, sharp and broken. “Like you give a shit.”
My mascara ran freely now. I wiped at my face angrily. “You’re all the same,” I cried and turned away.
I couldn’t even look at him. He’d stood there while my father hit me and said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t interfere. I know he works for my father, so maybe I had no right to expect anything—but it still hurt.
I ran up the stairs, locked my door behind me, and collapsed onto my bed, choking on the sound of my own crying.
