Page 54 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
By midnight, the last guests have departed. Staff clear glasses and plates with efficient silence, and suddenly it’s just us in a penthouse that feels smaller than it did hours ago.
Janice stands by the windows, still wearing the wedding dress that fits her like it was designed specifically for her body. I’d had measurements taken while she slept, had the dress commissioned and delivered within hours.
Money solves most problems when you have enough of it.
“You should change,” I say. “Get comfortable.”
She doesn’t turn. “Into what? I don’t have clothes here.”
“Guest room closet. I had things brought in while you were—” I pause, choosing words carefully. “—resting.”
“You mean while I was unconscious after whatever you gave me to knock me out.”
“I didn’t drug you, Janice. You passed out from exhaustion and stress. The maids dressed you this morning.”
“How convenient.” Her voice carries an edge that hasn’t been there before. Sharper. Angrier. “That I just happened to sleep through being put in a wedding dress.”
“Believe what you want. The clothes are there if you want them.”
She finally turns to face me, and the look in her eyes makes something tighten in my chest. Not fear anymore. Something colder.
“I’m your wife now.”
“Yes.”
“Legally bound. Under your name, your protection, your control.”
“That was the agreement.”
“I never agreed to anything. You gave me an ultimatum and orchestrated everything to ensure I had no choice.” She takes a step closer. “So let’s be clear about what this actually is. Ownership.”
“If that’s how you want to frame it.”
“It’s the truth.”
I cross the space between us slowly, watching her tense but hold her ground. “You’re right. I gave you no real choice. I manipulated circumstances to ensure the outcome I wanted. I took away your freedom to protect you from consequences youdon’t fully understand.” I stop directly in front of her, close enough to see her pulse hammer at her throat. “You walked down that aisle anyway. You saidI dowhen you could have refused. So tell me, Janice, why?”
She holds my gaze, defiant and beautiful and so goddamn dangerous to everything I’ve built.
“Refusing would have been suicide. Because I’m smart enough to recognize when I’m trapped. Fighting you in front of all those people would have accomplished nothing except getting me killed.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“What other reason could there possibly be?”
“You tell me.”
The air between us crackles with tension that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the four years of unfinished business pressing down on us both.
“I should change,” Janice says finally, voice carefully neutral. “It’s been a long day.”
She moves past me toward the guest suite, and I let her go. Watch the sway of her hips in that white dress, the stiff set of her shoulders that broadcasts how much effort composure is costing her.
The guest suite door closes with a soft click.
I pour a drink I don’t finish and wait.
***
