Page 6 of The Russian's Stalked Bride
“Who is it?” I ask, willing myself to ask even if I’m afraid to hear the answer.
He takes a breath, as if fully aware of the weight behind his words. “Someone called Maksim Balakin.”
The name doesn’t register, but it doesn’t have to. The way Cesare says it is enough to make my skin crawl.
He glances between the man and me, as if considering just how far he wants to take this conversation. But knowing him, he can’t help himself when he’s sitting on vital information, especially without Carlo here to stop him.
“If everything goes according to plan, then you could be engaged to him,” Cesare continues, his tone almost coaxing now, like he wants it to seem appealing somehow. “It would secure the alliance and strengthen our position. Plus, we could protect you better this way.”
Protect me.
Even if those words are supposed to be a comfort for me, they feel anything but right now, and the crushing weight of what all of that would mean hits me at once.
“I don’t want that,” I say immediately, heart pounding in my chest at the thought of being married to a man I don’t know. And one he’s talking about like a cure to every problem they’ve ever had.
As if I’m disappointing him, Cesare sighs. “Mila…”
“No,” I mumble, unable to ignore the rush of heat flooding my chest, or the panic accompanying it. “You can’t just decide that. I don’t know him. I don’t even know why—”
“You don’t need to. You’ll learn eventually.”
Before I can let the overwhelming emotions get the best of me, I curl my hands into fists beneath the table. “I’m not some kind of bargaining chip.”
His eyes hardened as I had obviously said the wrong thing. “You’re a Grimaldi. Whether you understand or not, that means something.”
The overwhelming emotions clamp around my throat, making me struggle to get any words out. “That doesn’t give you the right.”
“It gives us every right,” Cesare retorts, losing all trace of that previous softness. “Dad is dead, and Carlo and I are trying to hold everything together. You are not going to make this harder.”
A few of the men around us murmur their agreement, as if my compliance should be an obvious thing. Immediately, it’s more like me versus everyone else, and it makes me feel small. Exposed, even.
I have known dread ever since I understood what it meant to walk on eggshells. I did it often whenever Dad was in a mood, or if Carlo felt like something wasn’t going his way. For the most part, Cesare left me alone, only ever irritated with me if Carlo was. Either way, we never had the close bond I always wanted, which made it often difficult to feel at home.
Something in me wants to shut down, but I pull in a shallow breath and try to steady myself.
“You didn’t even ask me…you’re throwing this on me.”
Cesare leans closer, and his tone leaves no room for discussion. “Because this isn’t a request.”
I want nothing more than to cry, but I can’t let myself. Not in front of him, and not with the others around. Still, the sting in my eyes persists. “I won’t do it.”
“But you will, because if Carlo can finalize this deal, it’s happening,” Cesare murmurs, crystal-clear in his intentions.
My heart pounds so loudly in my chest, I have half the mind to assume everyone can hear it. At once, the restaurantfeels like it’s closing in on me, and the air is thinning to an almost painful degree.
I want out. I need air, space…something.
With a shaky inhale, I push up from my seat and clear my throat. “I need to use the restroom.”
Cesare watches me, looking almost annoyed by the interruption, then he sighs and nods once. “Don’t take too long. We’re not done here.”
My legs feel more like rubber as I leave the table, weaving my way through the dining area. I keep my pace steady and my expression neutral, not wanting to give myself away.
Unable to risk it, I don’t look back at Cesare.
When the restroom door clicks shut behind me and I lock myself into a stall, I press my palms to my eyes and try my best not to break down entirely.
Engaged. They want me engaged.
