Page 33 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
Maybe. Probably.
I return to my desk and try to work. The address comes through at eleven—a building in Midtown I recognize from my research, fifty stories of steel and glass housing Rudenko Industries’ executive offices.
I have three hours to prepare.
I spend them alternating between building presentation materials I know he won’t care about and staring at my phone, trying to convince myself to call Marcus and refuse.
I don’t.
At one thirty, I change into a different blouse—something that doesn’t gape between buttons, something that feels like armor. Reapply lipstick with hands that won’t stay steady. Check my reflection in the bathroom mirror and see a woman trying very hard to look like she’s not falling apart.
I text Diana:Leaving now. If you don’t hear from me by four, call the police.
Her response is immediate:Not funny.
I’m not joking.
***
The Rudenko Industries building is exactly as intimidating as I expected.
Security checks my ID against a list, directs me to elevators that require keycard access. A receptionist on theforty-eighth floor greets me with professional courtesy that doesn’t quite mask her curiosity.
“Mr. Rudenko is expecting you. Last door on the left.”
The hallway stretches longer than it should, each step echoing against marble floors. My heart hammers against my ribs, breath coming too shallow. I force myself to slow down, to breathe normally, to remember that I’m a professional here for a business meeting.
The lie doesn’t help.
I reach the door, pause with my hand raised to knock.
This is a mistake, but I knock anyway.
“Come in.”
His voice sends electricity down my spine: familiar, controlled, dangerous.
I open the door.
The office is massive, one wall entirely of glass overlooking Manhattan. Expensive furniture, carefully curated art, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Dimitri sits behind a desk that could double as a small car, fingers steepled, watching me with those steel-gray eyes that miss nothing.
“Close the door.”
I do, because refusing would reveal fear I can’t afford to show.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
The command in his voice makes my knees weak in ways that have nothing to do with fear. I sink into the chair across from his desk, back straight, hands folded over my tablet.
He doesn’t speak immediately. Just watches me with the same unnerving focus from the boardroom, letting silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable.
“You requested this meeting,” I say finally. “What did you want to discuss?”
“Campaign strategy. Target demographics. Brand positioning.” He says the words like they bore him. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
