Page 34 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“Yes.”
“Then present.”
I open my tablet with fingers that tremble slightly, pull up the preliminary strategy deck I’d prepared. Launch into my pitch—audience analysis, messaging frameworks, media placement recommendations.
He doesn’t look at the screen. Doesn’t take notes. Just watches me with that predatory stillness that makes every word feel like walking across broken glass.
Halfway through the third slide, he interrupts. “Why did you come back to New York?”
The question has nothing to do with marketing strategy.
“Job opportunity. It’s a better salary than I could get elsewhere.”
“You could work anywhere. Remote positions, other cities. Why here?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Humor me.”
I meet his gaze directly. “Because running away felt like losing. I don’t like to lose.”
Something flickers across his expression. “No. You don’t.”
He stands, moves around the desk with that controlled grace I remember too well. I tense, every muscle screaming at me to run, but I force myself to stay seated.
“The campaign strategy is irrelevant,” Dimitri says, leaning against the desk directly in front of me. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, see the precise tailoring of his suit. “We both know why you’re really here.”
“Marcus said you wanted to discuss it personally.”
“Marcus says what I tell him to say.” His voice drops lower. “Just like you used to do what I told you to do. Remember?”
Heat floods my face. “That was four years ago.”
“Was it? Because I remember it very clearly. The way you responded when I touched you. The sounds you made. How your body—”
“Stop.”
“Why? Does it bother you, remembering what we did?”
“It was just one time. You made sure of that.”
His jaw tightens. “I made sure you stayed safe.”
“You got me fired. Erased me from your life like I never existed. That’s not protection, Dimitri. That’s cruelty.”
“What you did after?” His voice hardens. “Was that justice?”
My pulse spikes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He leans closer, and I can see the rage simmering underneath his control. “The exposé. ProPublica. The anonymous investigation that nearly destroyed everything I’d built. That wasn’t you?”
I should deny it. Should act confused, offended, professionally outraged at the accusation.
Instead, something reckless surfaces.
“Would it matter if it was? You’d already destroyed me. Why shouldn’t I return the favor?”
The admission hangs between us, sharp and damning.
