“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.”
