Page 1 of Arranged with Twins

Sienna

T he Mandarin Oriental’s grand ballroom transforms Manhattan’s elite into a glittering chess set tonight, and I’m the piece everyone’s watching. New York’s most powerful families sip champagne and pretend this merger isn’t exactly what it is.

A business transaction dressed in silk and pearls.

I straighten my spine, shoulders back, the way my mother, Katherine, taught me since I could walk. The Valentino gown she chose fits like armor and is midnight blue with silver threading. Every detail has been thought out, and every angle will be photographed.

Sienna Cooper isn’t with us tonight. I’m an investment portfolio in couture.

Mother murmurs beside me, her voice carrying that familiar edge of command wrapped in honey.

“Remember, darling, this alliance saves everything. The company, our reputation, and our legacy.” Her manicured fingers brush my elbow, a gesture that looks maternal to the cameras while carrying the force of a strict manager.

“Vincent has worked too hard to let it all crumble now.”

Yeah, he’s worked hard to ruin my fucking life…

Father stands to my other side, his tuxedo impeccable.

I catch the slight tremor in his hands when he lifts his glass.

The stress lines around his eyes have deepened over the past six months, carved deeper by whatever financial catastrophe he’s been shielding me from.

His empire built on three generations of careful expansion now hangs by threads I’m apparently supposed to weave back together.

He's traded my life for the longevity of the empire, and I’m not sure I’m down for it.

“The Denisovs understand loyalty.” His voice pitches low enough that only Mother and I can hear. “This treaty benefits everyone involved. It’s what civilized families do.”

Civilized. I resist the urge to snort. There’s nothing civilized about bartering your daughter’s freedom to save your reputation, yet I learned years ago that pointing out such inconvenient truths only earns disappointed sighs and lectures about family obligation.

Too many rules. One would think criminals don’t have to follow rules.

The crowd shifts, and I get my first clear look at Leonid Denisov in fifteen years.

The gangly teenager who once lived in our guest wing has vanished, replaced by something altogether more dangerous.

He’s taller than I remember, well over six feet, with shoulders that fill his custom-tailored jacket.

He has dark hair swept back from sharp features, and I remember those same piercing blue eyes that used to watch everything from the corners of rooms. They’re changed too though, having become harder and more jaded. Everything about him screams “guarded.”

Where the boy was cautious, the man commands. Conversations pause when he passes. Heads turn. He moves through the space like he owns it, which in many ways, he does.

He looks at me across the room and something electric shoots down my spine. He studies me with the same intensity he once brought to chess games in Father’s study, like I’m just another game he wants to win.

That stare makes me want to either run or stand taller.

I choose the latter.

Mother’s voice carries notes of satisfaction and relief. “There he is. Leonid Denisov is even more impressive than the photographs, wouldn’t you say?”

I wouldn’t know. I’ve avoided looking at any photographs and avoided thinking about this night for as long as possible. My sole memories of him were of the teenage version. Now that he’s here, moving toward us with purposeful strides, I can’t look away.

People create a natural corridor for his approach. This isn’t about respect but fear. These people know exactly who Leo Denisov is and what he represents. The legitimate businessman facade doesn’t fool anyone in this room.

His voice carries a slight accent, softened by years in American schools while still audible in the way he shapes certain syllables. “Vincent.” He extends his hand to Father as he arrives, who clasps it with both of his.

His gratitude and desperation are poorly disguised as warmth, and his smile looks strained around the edges. “Leonid, thank you for coming, and… for all of this. I think you remember Katherine?”

Leo turns to my mother, bending slightly over her offered hand in a gesture that’s somehow both respectful and dismissive. “Mrs. Cooper, you look radiant.”

Katherine practically glows under the attention. “Such a charmer. This is our daughter, Sienna.”

Now those blue eyes focus entirely on me. The sensation is like being caught under stage lights. He doesn’t offer his hand immediately as he studies my face with an intensity that makes heat creep up my neck. Finally, he extends his hand, palm up.

“Sienna.” The way he says my name sounds different than when others do. It’s somehow more deliberate, like he’s testing how it fits in his mouth. “You’ve grown up.”

I place my hand in his, and his fingers close around mine with careful pressure. His skin is warm and callused in unexpected places. When he brushes his thumb over my knuckles, something flutters low in my stomach.

An evil man shouldn’t be this beautiful.

“So have you. We both had to eventually.” I’m proud of how composed I sound, because it doesn’t match how I feel.

His mouth quirks at the corner. It’s not quite a smile, but it is an acknowledgment of some connection we have. “Indeed, we did.”

He’s still holding my hand, and I’m acutely aware of the cameras positioned around the room, and the way conversations have shifted to accommodate our little table. This is the shot they want of the handsome billionaire and the society daughter, picture-perfect and ready for tomorrow’s headlines.

I catalog details. His jacket fits snugly across broad shoulders.

It’s not too small. On the contrary, it’s a product of precise, bespoke tailoring.

There’s a slight scar above his left eyebrow that wasn’t there when we were children.

He also smells like expensive cologne layered over something more fundamental.

Masculine.

Sexy, even?

Definitely sexy. Regrettably so.

Mother, always trying to be in control, gestures toward the waiting cameras. “Perhaps we should let the photographers capture this moment. The announcement has everyone so excited.”

Leo releases my hand while stepping closer rather than away. “Of course. I’d prefer a few moments of private conversation first, if Sienna doesn’t mind.”

It’s phrased as a request, while his tone makes it clear my preferences are secondary to his plans. He and my parents have that in common. Father nods eagerly, already moving to usher Mother toward the crowd of waiting reporters and society columnists.

Father calls over his shoulder, “Take all the time you need. We’ll be right here.”

Right here meaning thirty feet away and completely absorbed in managing the media narrative. I’m alone with Leo Denisov for the first time since childhood, and the silence stretches between us like a live wire.

His observation cuts straight to the heart of things. “You don’t seem thrilled about this arrangement.”

Why bother denying it? “Should I be? Most women dream of being traded like baseball cards, I’m sure.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re very direct, and I appreciate that. It’ll make this easier.”

I quirk a brow. “What exactly will it make easier?”

“Understanding each other. Your father owes me a considerable debt that’s not financial but personal. This marriage settles that debt while providing both our families with certain advantages.” He pauses, studying my reaction. “I assume he’s explained the benefits to you?”

The clinical way he discusses our impending marriage makes my jaw clench. “He’s explained that his business needs stabilizing and apparently, I’m the solution.”

Leo glances toward where my parents are holding court with reporters, then back to me. “Among other things. I won’t pretend this is a love match, Sienna. I will promise you’ll be protected, provided for, and treated with respect. That’s more than many marriages in our world offer.”

Our world. He speaks like we share something beyond this forced alliance. Like I chose to inhabit the same shadowy spaces where handshake agreements and family debts carry the force of law. “What do you get out of this bargain?” I keep my voice level despite the anger building inside me.

He watches my face, studying my reaction.

“Legitimacy, stability, and a wife who understands the requirements of public life. Your family has an impeccable reputation despite your father’s recent difficulties.

Marriage to you signals the Denisov name has arrived in acceptable society. It also helps that you’re pretty.”

I snort softly. “How romantic.”

Surprisingly, he gives me a tiny smile. “Romance isn’t really what I’m after. The bedroom can be warm without it.”

Before I can respond to that cryptic statement, a commotion near the bar draws both our attention. A man in an expensive yet poorly fitted suit has cornered one of the waitresses, his hand resting far too familiarly on her lower back as she tries to step away with a tray of glasses.

Leo’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring.

Something intense crosses his expression that reminds me exactly why people fear him.

He doesn’t move toward the situation immediately.

Instead, his attention returns to me. “Excuse me for a moment. There’s something that needs my attention. ”

He starts toward the bar with a brisk step.

I follow, partly from curiosity and partly because the alternative is standing alone in the middle of a room full of people who see me as either a business opportunity or entertainment. The crowd naturally creates space for Leo’s approach, and I slip in behind him just as he reaches the bar.

Leo’s voice cuts through the ambient conversation without rising in volume. “Mr. Hamilton, I don’t believe you’ve met my fiancée.”