Page 75 of His Stolen Bride

“It’s not new,” I reply. “You just didn’t see it before.”

Mikhail exhales through his nose, then he nods once, curt. “Fine. We do it your way. You write the reply. We deliver it through a neutral hand. We set the meeting for tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening is too soon,” I say.

His gaze hardens. “The child.”

“I know,” I say, and I step even closer, close enough that I can see the small tension at his jaw. “We can still prepare without handing him the rhythm. We set it for the following day, and we spend tomorrow building the frame.”

His tone turns sharp. “Vladimir has seventy-two hours. You want to wait?”

“I want to control,” I say again, and I keep my voice steady. “Tomorrow, we make him think I’m hesitant. Tomorrow, we make him hungry for the meeting. Then when we give it, he walks in careless.”

Mikhail’s eyes narrow. “How?”

I lift my chin. “You let him hear I’m not running, and you let him hear I’m thinking. You leak it to the right person.”

His mouth tightens. “Leaking is dangerous.”

“So is letting him choose the schedule,” I reply.

Silence hangs between us, and it’s thick with everything we did not say last night, and everything we did say in that office. Then he steps forward and his hand lands at my waist, not gentle, not rough, just firm, like his body decided something before his mouth did.

“I don’t like waiting,” he says.

“I don’t like being owned,” I answer.

His grip tightens slightly. “You’re not owned.”

I hold his gaze. “Then trust me.”

He stares at me for a long second, then his hand slides up my side, slow, and he cups the back of my neck like he’s trying not to pull.

“Write the reply,” he says, voice low. “Then we go.”

I blink. “Go where?”

His mouth curves, small and controlled. “A date.”

I stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “You said you need control. You said you need a frame. So we build it, and we do it in public, and we look normal.”

“We don’t look normal,” I say flatly.

His eyes flick over my face. “We can.”

I swallow, then I nod once. “Fine. I’ll write it first.”

He releases me, and I hate that part of me wants him to pull me back.

Sofia takes Oisin for an “inside picnic” in the sitting room, complete with a blanket and cut fruit and a tiny cup of juice that makes him feel grown, and I take an unmarked car with a driver Mikhail trusts and a phone that isn’t mine. I sit in a small café across town, one with tourists and students and noise, and I write Vladimir a reply in clean handwriting on plain paper.

I keep it short, calm, like a woman who chooses.

I’ll meet you on Tuesday evening.

Then I add a line that I know will hook his pride.