Page 5 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I look at Yuri. “Cancel the denials. Don’t issue a press release countering her claims. Let the rumors marinate for a few hours.”

“Then?”

“Then, I’ll rewrite the ending.”

***

Hours later, the gala is in full swing. The venue is a study in excess: white flowers, ice sculptures, more diamonds than the stock market. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and desperation.

I move through the crowd like a shark in shallow water. I see the way people look at me. The whispers are already circulating. I catch snippets of conversation as I pass.

“Did you see the article?”

“Money laundering? I thought he was tech.”

“Stay away from him tonight, just in case.”

Good. Let them wonder. Let them fear. Uncertainty is a weapon too.

Then I see her.

Freya’s standing near the orchestra, a glass of champagne in her hand, looking like she’s ready to commit murder. She’s wearing green—a deep, shimmering emerald that clings to her body like a second skin. The dress hugs her waist, flaring over her hips, highlighting an ass that makes my mouth go dry.

She’s magnificent.

I watch her for a moment. She’s scanning the room, her eyes sharp, missing nothing. She’s not checking her phone.

She’s looking for me.

I straighten my jacket. It’s leather, softer than the tuxedos everyone else is wearing, a subtle statement that I don’t follow their rules. I start moving toward her, cutting a path through the crowd. People part instinctively.

She’s talking to a group of tech investors. I recognize the face of the one in the center—Marcus, a weasel of a man who’d sell his own grandmother for a favorable IPO.

I step up behind her, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something floral and sweet, vanilla mixed with jasmine.

“My apologies for interrupting,” I say, pitching my voice just right.

She stiffens just a fraction. Her shoulder blades lock together beneath the silk of her dress. She knows who I am. She’d know my voice anywhere.

She turns.

Up close, she’s even more devastating. Her skin is pale, dusted with glitter that catches the light. Her eyes are wide. They’re a vivid, startling green that reminds me of the forests outside St. Petersburg. They’re filled with hate. It’s a pure, undiluted loathing that should make me want to kill her.

Instead, it makes me hard.

I see the calculation in her gaze. She expected to find me cornered. She expected to find me defensive. She didn’t expect me to walk right up to her and smile.

“Nikita,” she says. Her voice is steady, but I see the pulse hammering in her throat. “I didn’t think you’d show your face after the exposé.”

She’s trying to provoke me. She’s trying to get me to lash out, to deny it, to give the room the reaction they’re expecting.

I don’t bite.

I take her hand. It’s soft, warm, trembling just slightly.

“And miss the opportunity to celebrate?” I say, projecting my voice to the room.

I feel her confusion. It radiates off her in waves.