Page 25 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
I should feel successful. Mostly I feel tired.
Diana meets me for coffee before the morning meeting, sliding into the chair across from me with her usual effortless grace. Four years and she hasn’t changed—still sharp, still ambitious, still the only person from that time who knows the whole story.
“Big day,” she says, wrapping her hands around an Americano. “Rudenko Industries finally agreed to meet. Marcus has been chasing this account for six months.”
My stomach drops. “Rudenko Industries?”
“Yeah. Real estate development, property management, commercial acquisitions. Huge portfolio. If we land them, it’s a seven-figure contract.” Diana studies me over the rim of her cup. “You okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Janice?”
“It’s fine. It’s been four years. I’m a professional. I can handle one meeting.”
Diana’s expression says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. She knows better.
We finish our coffee in relative silence, then head to the office together. The entire walk, my mind is racing. Rudenko Industries. It has to be a coincidence. Dimitri’s empire is massive—he probably has entire departments he never interacts with. There’s no reason he’d be at a preliminary marketing meeting with a mid-tier firm.
No reason at all.
I repeat this to myself all the way to the conference room.
***
The boardroom is already full when I arrive.
Marcus, my boss, sits at the head of the table looking pleased with himself. The rest of our team is arranged strategically—senior strategist, creative director, account manager. I take my seat near the middle, tablet open, professional mask firmly in place.
The Rudenko representatives are running late. Marcus checks his watch twice, then his phone, then smooths his tie in a way that broadcasts nerves he’s trying to hide.
“They’re particular about these things,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “Want to make sure we’re the right fit before committing resources.”
Diana catches my eye from across the table and raises one eyebrow. I ignore her.
Then the door opens.
Three men enter. The first two I don’t recognize—business suits, leather portfolios, the kind of polished professionalism that comes from expensive educations and family connections. They introduce themselves as senior vice presidents of something or other. I stop listening the second I see who’s behind them.
Dimitri Rudenko.
The air changes the second he steps into the room.
He’s different than I remember. Older, yes—four years shows in the lines around his eyes, the sharper edge to his jaw. His hair is shorter now, more controlled, though still longer than traditional business standards. The suit he wears probably costs more than I make in a month, tailored so precisely it could be a second skin.
It’s his eyes that stop my heart.
Steel-gray, sharp as a blade, and locked directly on me.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even glance at Marcus, who’s already on his feet extending his hand for a greeting that Dimitri ignores completely.
“Mr. Rudenko,” Marcus says, faltering slightly. “Thank you for making time. We’re excited to discuss how we can support—”
“Where should I sit?” Dimitri’s voice cuts through Marcus’s pitch like ice through water. His accent is exactly as I remember.
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Marcus gestures to the chair directly across from me. “Please.”
Dimitri moves with the same predatory grace I remember, settling into the seat without breaking eye contact. One of his associates sits beside him, opening a laptop. The other remains standing near the door.
