Page 6

GEORGIA

Days later, Volkov darkens my doorway at the arena.

I keep my eyes on the patient file on my screen. What’s he doing here? He’s never been in my office before. This is so weird.

“What’s the matter, Volkov? Get lost on the way to the underworld?”

“No.” He closes the door behind him. “I found it just fine.”

I fight the urge to laugh. I hate him, and that wasn’t funny. He leans on the glass, crossing his arms over his broad chest, watching me with that unnerving, cold expression.

“Despite you thinking I’m not a real doctor, I actually have work to do with my tiny lady brain.” I make a shoo gesture. “Go away.”

“Have you thought about what we discussed?”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. This again?

“No,” I lie. “I haven’t.”

It’s all I’ve thought about this week. I had another lawyer look through the will to see if there’s any wiggle room—there isn’t.

I have no other options. A sick feeling rolls through me. I hate feeling trapped like this. I hate feeling like I have no choice, like my hand is forced.

“Fine.” He starts to leave.

“How would it work?”

He pauses, turns around, and closes the door again, watching me .

“Like, how long are we talking?”

“My immigration lawyer says it could be up to a year.”

A year. Okay. “My inheritance will be distributed after three months of marriage.” Mid-December, if we did this quickly. Just in time for the funding cut off at the hospital.

We’re silent, darting glances at each other. I can’t believe I’m actually considering this.

I keep thinking about the girls at soccer, though. It’s important. It helps them. It matters.

Am I really going to fuck that all up because I can’t put up with Volkov for a year? I would never fall for him. He’s always traveling for the team, anyway. He’d be like a terrible roommate who I’d never see.

Maybe I can do this. For the girls, I think I can do this.

Holy hell. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.

“Fine.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Fine, what?”

“Fine, I’ll—” Through the glass walls of my office, Ward walks by, and I give him a weak smile and nod hello. He waves back, glancing between me and Volkov with curiosity. “I accept. I’m in.”

Volkov watches me, and I fight the urge to shift under his gaze.

It’s that old feeling from medical school, from childhood, from my residency years, when a man is trying to intimidate me.

He does it so effortlessly, without even knowing he’s doing it, because society has told him he holds all the power.

I cross my legs, kicking a foot out, and his gaze drops. I’m wearing the tall, spiky heels today. His jaw tenses like it always does when I wear this pair.

“Meet me at the Italian place across the street tonight and we’ll figure out the details.” He clears his throat.

What? I don’t want to get dinner with him. Ew. “Let’s go to the bar.”

“We need to be seen. Photographed. ”

Right. Volkov attracts attention wherever he goes. All these hockey players do. In Vancouver, hockey is a religion, and these men are gods.

“Eight,” he says.

“Nine.” I like working late because there are less interruptions.

He nods once. “Don’t be late.” As he’s about to leave, he pauses. “Why do you need the money?”

I can’t tell him the truth. Even if he doesn’t care, I don’t want him to know.

It’s personal, and it’s mine, and I can’t trust a guy like Volkov with something so special.

Besides, his hate fuels me. Every time Volkov shows his true colors and acts like an asshole, I get a little ping of the I was right feeling.

I shoot him a pleased, smug smile, straightening my leg and letting my heel dangle. “For my shoe collection, of course.”

A beat passes. He doesn’t actually believe I’d get married for shoes, does he?

He shakes his head with a disgusted expression. “Incredible, Doctor. I underestimated how superficial you are.”

His words pinch, but before I can respond, he’s gone.

“Dickhead,” I mutter, flipping him the bird behind his back as he walks away.

There’s no way I’d ever fall for that asshole.