Page 104 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
Certainty.
She chose me. Without knowing the manufactured contact was mine. Without knowing every message, every push toward betrayal was carefully crafted to test whether weeks of proximity would override the temptation of freedom.
She had the window, the opportunity, everything lined up perfectly—and she walked away from it.
I forward the message to Felix.
She refused. Test concluded.
His response is immediate.
You’re sure this proves anything? She could be playing the long game.
She’s not. I know her.
Knowing someone and trusting them are different things.
Not anymore. Not with her.
I shut down the monitoring feed and delete the tracking software. The burner phone will stop receiving messages now, turned off remotely without Santini or Janice ever knowing I read their correspondence. She’s loyal to me, and that’s all I need to know.
She passed.
The knowledge settles in my bones with a certainty I’ve never felt before. Not with allies, not with family, not with anyone who’s sworn loyalty then proven it negotiable when circumstances shifted.
Janice is different. Has always been different.
She admitted the contact to me days ago—confessed everything in my study with fear and honesty that cut deeper than any lie. She didn’t know I already knew. Didn’t know I’d orchestrated the entire thing. She just trusted me enough to be vulnerable, to confess her temptation and her ultimate refusal.
Now I have confirmation. The final message, sent when she thought no one was watching, proving her confession was genuine.
She chose me over freedom. Over revenge, over every logical reason to walk away.
I hear movement in the hallway—her footsteps, distinctive and familiar. She appears in the doorway wearing one of my shirts, hair loose around her shoulders, Misha cradled in her arms.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
“Misha was restless. I think she missed you.” Janice crosses to the couch, settling with the kitten in her lap. “Icouldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow. About you being gone for hours.”
“Worried?”
“Always.” She strokes Misha’s back absently. “I know you can handle yourself. Doesn’t mean I like it when you walk into rooms full of people who want you dead.”
The casual concern in her voice does something to me. She’s not performing. This is genuine fear for my safety, the kind that only comes from caring too much.
“The Volkovs want alliance more than blood,” I say. “This whole thing is negotiation, not war.”
“This time.” Her eyes find mine. “What about next time, or the time after that?”
“Then I’ll handle it. The way I always do.” I stand, crossing to sit beside her. “You’re worrying about things that haven’t happened yet.”
“That’s what people who care do. We worry.” She shifts Misha carefully. “I spent so long trying not to care about you. It was easier when I could hate you. Now—”
“Now?”
“Now I wake up and my first thought is whether you’re safe. Whether someone’s planning something I can’t protect you from. Whether loving you means watching you die eventually because that’s how this world works.” Her voice stays steady, but I hear the fear underneath. “I’m not built for this kind of fear, Dimitri.”
I pull her closer, Misha protesting the movement before settling between us. “You’re stronger than you think.”
