Chapter 33

Katerina watches this exchange with knowing eyes. “Perhaps you should check that note,” she suggests. “It might be important.”

“It can wait,” Vince replies, but his hand stays near his pocket like he can’t stand to be separated from it.

The tension at the table rises to unbearable levels. I can’t believe what I’ve done. Can’t believe I thought this was a good idea.

“I need to use the restroom,” I announce, desperate for a moment to collect myself.

“Of course,” Katerina says. “Down the hall to the left.”

I practically flee the table, feeling both their gazes on my back as I weave through the restaurant. In the restroom, I brace myself against the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I whisper to myself.

The woman in the mirror—with her blazing red dress and matching lips—looks like a stranger. A reckless, impulsive stranger who thought it would be fun to play with fire.

Oh, how wrong she was.

I splash some cold water on my wrists and neck, trying to calm down. I need to go back out there. I need to face whatever happens next.

When I return to the table, I find Vince alone, his expression thunderous.

“Where’s Katerina?” I ask, sliding back into my seat.

“She stepped outside to take a call.” His voice is dangerously quiet. “Which gives us a moment to discuss this.”

He pulls out the envelope and places it on the table between us.

“Care to explain?” he asks.

“It looks like an envelope to me,” I reply, aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile.

“Don’t play games, Rowan. Not about this.”

“Isn’t that exactly what we’ve been doing? Playing games?” I meet his gaze defiantly. “You leave me notes about thinking of me when you come. You touch me under tables while on dates with other women. You tell me to wear certain colors, certain dresses, like I’m your doll to dress up.”

“So this is what? Revenge?”

“No.” I swallow hard. “It’s me playing by your rules.”

He opens the envelope slowly, sliding the Polaroid just far enough out to see what it is, then quickly pushes it back in before anyone can see. His eyes darken to midnight as they lift to meet mine.

“We will discuss this later,” he says, his voice tight with controlled fury.

Or is it desire?

“Of course, Mr. Akopov.” I smile sweetly. “Whatever you say.”

Katerina returns before he can respond, sliding gracefully back into her seat. “Sorry about that. Family business.” She glances between us, sensing the charged atmosphere. “Did I miss anything interesting?”

“Not at all,” Vince says smoothly, though his eyes remain fixed on me. “We were just discussing tomorrow’s schedule.”

“How fascinating,” Katerina drawls, clearly not buying it. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I’m afraid I need to leave early. My uncle requires my presence at a family matter.”

I can tell from Vince’s expression that he doesn’t believe her excuse any more than he believes my innocent act.

“Of course,” he says, signaling for the check. “I understand completely.”

“I’m sure you do.” Katerina stands, gathering her purse. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Rowan. I hope we’ll see each other again sometime.”

“Likewise,” I respond automatically.

Vince rises to escort her out. Before they leave, Katerina leans in close to him, saying something I can’t hear.

Whatever it is makes his jaw tighten.

As they walk away, I sit alone at the table, a storm of emotions raging inside me. Satisfaction that my plan worked—the date is clearly over, cut short by whatever Katerina sensed between Vince and me.

Anxiety about what will happen when Vince returns.

And shame, creeping in around the edges, that I stooped to such petty tactics.

I’m better than this.

Or at least, I thought I was.

Vince returns a few minutes later, his expression unreadable. “Car’s outside,” he says curtly. “Let’s go.”

I follow him silently, feeling smaller with each step. The vengeful satisfaction I felt earlier has curdled into shame. I’m not this person—this manipulative, jealous woman playing games with nude Polaroids.

Except apparently, I am.

In the car, Vince sits across from me. Neither of us speaks as we pull away from the curb, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, I speak. “I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?” His voice is cold. “For slipping a nude photo into my pocket? For deliberately sabotaging my dinner? Or simply for getting caught doing it?”

“All of it.” I stare down at my hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It was childish. Petty.”

“Yes.” He studies me for a long moment. “It was also effective.”

I look up, surprised. “What?”

“Katerina told me she’s withdrawing from consideration as my potential bride.” A small, rueful smile plays at his lips. “She said, and I quote, ‘I won’t compete with the woman you actually want.’”

My cheeks burn hot. “I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“Yes, you did.” He pulls out the envelope, turning it over in his hands. “The question is, what do we do now?”

I have no answer for him. No clever retort. No strategy.

“I… I don’t know.”

He smolders at me. “Then let’s see if we can’t find some inspiration.”

My lungs fill with air so thick it’s like inhaling smoke. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but watch as Vincent Akopov—crime lord, future pakhan, and my personal sexual tormentor—slides the Polaroid from its envelope.

He examines my naked body. The seconds stretch between us, elastic and poisonous. My thighs are pressed together hard enough to crack bone.

I’m a mess. I’m an utter fucking mess.

“Rowan…” he growls finally, voice dropped to that register that turns my insides molten. My name alone is almost enough to make me combust. “Do you even understand what you’re doing?”

I can’t speak. Can only shake my head.

“You think this is about sex.” He leans forward, reducing the space between us to nothing. “It’s not.”

I swallow. “Then what is it about?”

“Control.” He reaches out, his fingertips grazing my knee where the slit in my dress reveals bare skin. “Power.” His hand slides higher, pushing the silk fabric with it. “Ownership.”

I should stop him. Actually, that’s one of a million things I should do. Also on that list are “slap him” and “scream” and “throw myself out of the car if that’s what it takes to get myself out of this disaster in the making.”

Instead, I part my thighs.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

“If that’s true,” I croak, amazed at how steady my voice sounds when I’m disintegrating inside, “then why are you the one who seems out of control right now?”

His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing to blue slits. “Because you’re not supposed to exist.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” He slides his hand higher, fingers dancing along my inner thigh. “… that you were supposed to be an easily dismissed diversion. Something simple to fill the time while I handled my father’s marriage demands.”

Heat blooms where he touches me.