Page 16 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

Rules of Engagement

SKYE

“Okay, walk me through how you went from changing your name and going no-contact with just about everybody you knew other than me in college to get away from your psycho ex… to agreeing to stay married to him for ninety days.”

Even though Sunshine, my not-as-bright-yellow-anymore Mini, was approaching middle-aged in car years, Merry’s voice piped out of its infotainment system clear as day.

Meanwhile, I sat stuck on I-94 West, crawling toward Exit 230 where the GPS told me I would be getting off, in an ever-increasing amount of minutes thanks to a rush-hour accident turning the interstate into a stop-and-go hell.

Of all the things I hadn’t missed about Minneapolis in the ten years I’d been gone, rush hour definitely topped the list.

A headache crawled up the back of my neck, and not just from traffic.

“The answer to that question starts with a five and ends with six zeroes behind it,” I told Merry evenly. “If I do this, it sets Chris up for life.”

“Or ruins yours.” Merry’s voice sharpened. “No, no, there’s got to be a better way. I can’t let you do this.”

Merry was fragile right now—reeling after Chris’s diagnosis of Korvell Syndrome, the rare genetic condition that would eventually rob him of both his hearing and his sight if we didn’t find help.

So I bit down hard on my tongue. Pointing out that I’d already walked her through my plan ten times wouldn’t help her accept it.

Neither would reminding her that in all that time, she still hadn’t come up with another way to get him what he needed—surgeries, care, and maybe even a trip to Europe for an experimental trial—while keeping Paws & Claws alive.

“I’m going to figure out how to get in touch with that piece of scheisse who knocked me up,” she declared.

I’d lived with her long enough to know scheisse meant shit in German—a title she often used in about twenty different ways to refer to her ex baby daddy. I bit my tongue again.

Otherwise, I’d have pointed out that she’d already spent the last two weeks trying to get through the fortress of assistants and lawyers surrounding him.

The chances of her, an American nobody without many resources, getting the now CEO of his family’s 200-year-old beer and beverage empire on the phone were way worse than me surviving the next ninety days with my heart and mind intact.

“Or maybe I should just sell a kidney on the black market,” Merry suggested.

“Mer, don’t do that….”

“I just don’t want you back in his grips again.” Her voice cracked. “Remember what he put you through with that bullshit Anything List the last time you needed his help?”

I remembered. My body remembered. But telling her how terrified I was of the three months to come wouldn’t stop her. It would only make her more frantic.

So I put on my cheerful big-girl voice. “Look, Merry, I’ve got this. Do not sell any organs on the black market.”

Traffic finally unclogged, and the GPS told me to take Exit 230 with less than five minutes to go to my destination.

“And if you track down your ex? Trust me, I’ll call this whole charade off as soon as you do. Until then, just focus on Chris. And Bully. Thank you for that, by the way.”

“I should be thanking you .” She sucked on her teeth. “After you left this morning, your pittie barked and growled at some kids who were trying to mess with Chris at the park. Scared them off good.”

I grimaced as I slid onto the exit ramp toward the North Loop, Minneapolis’s shiny new warehouse district. “Please tell me he didn’t bite anyone.”

“I grabbed him before he could. I’ll keep him leashed until you’re back for your first visit.”

“And give him hugs for me?”

“If he lets me.” Merry chuckled, dry and fond. “You know he only tolerates me because I’m Chris’s mom and your best friend.”

I wanted to laugh, to reassure her that Bully loved her, too. But the GPS cut me off with its robotic, “Arriving at final destination.”

My heart hammered in my throat as I looked up at the high-rise looming in the distance. Vaguely familiar. Dread coiled higher with every floor I counted.

I glanced at the ring on my left hand, the one I was contractually obligated to wear for the next ninety days.

For Merry’s sake, I swallowed the panic down. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can,” I promised before steering into the dark mouth of the underground parking garage.

SKYE—no… LYDIA

“Lydia! Lydia! Hello! Over here!” a voice with a lovely English lilt called out as soon as I stepped into the building’s lobby.

I was so intent on reaching the front desk to figure out which office I was supposed to be meeting Yom at, I almost walked right past the brunette in the waiting area. She jumped up and came rushing over to me.

“Oh—hey…” I recognized her. She’d been part of the fleet of people who descended on that hastily arranged conference room at the Benton Grand hours after I’d agreed to Yom’s fake-marriage charade—in exchange for five million dollars.

To my surprise, Yom had let most of the talking fall to people with titles like “counsel,” “rep,” and “coordinator.”

I wasn’t sure which title the brunette walking toward me held, but she was perfectly made-up and wearing wide-leg pants and a linen blouse opened at the neck to showcase a double strand of pearls.

Effortless chic. Pinterest-board chic. I immediately wanted to snap a picture for “future conference inspo,” in case I ever had to—full body shiver—give a speech again.

But I didn’t remember her name.

“Ingrid,” she supplied with a bright smile, as if she’d read my mind. “I’ll be escorting you upstairs. Right this way, Lydia—is it okay if I call you Lydia?”

She had to be around my age and ten times more sophisticated. “Of—of course,” I stammered.

“Wonderful. Let’s head up. In the elevator, I thought we could go over your PR schedule for the next ten days. It’s packed. And Yom wanted to be sure you understood what it entailed. Did you get a chance to read it yet?”

Okay, PR team. Got it.

“Kind of?” I admitted, grimacing as the elevator doors shut.

No way was I confessing I’d been too overwhelmed training a new hire (who thankfully wasn’t a hockey fan) at Paws & Claws and throwing my life into a single suitcase to actually read my five-million-dollar job description. “I definitely plan to.”

“Not a problem.” Ingrid pressed the button for the twelfth floor. “The first week’s fairly light — an exhibition match and a few charity events. You’ve a dinner with Yom’s PR team this evening. They’ll bring you fully up to speed. If anything’s unclear, just give me a ring on this.”

She handed me the latest GoNoTo flip smartphone—sleek, shiny, and something I’d never buy for myself. I was still clinging to the phone I’d purchased six years ago when I moved to Canada.

“I’ve also set up a starter wardrobe for you. Anything that doesn’t fit or suit your style can be swapped out—especially athleisure, shoes, and watches. Yom has so many brand deals, we’re practically drowning in free stuff at the office.”

The elevator dinged, and she motioned for me to step out first.

“The office? Is that where we’re headed?” I asked, brow furrowed as I took in the sleek hallway lined with industrial black steel doors marked with three-digit chrome numbers.

She gave a light laugh. “No, the office is really just for staging and coordination. Even Yom never sets foot in it. Truth be told, he’s not the easiest of clients.

PR practically has to chase him about to get him to do anything remotely self-promotional.

Which is why they’re simply delighted about you.

Fan interest is through the roof, so your diary’s rather packed.

But not to worry — it will all calm down once the novelty wears off. ”

So she wasn’t on his PR team, then. Also, fan interest wasn’t what set the alarm bells ringing in my head.

“This is only temporary,” I reminded her since she’d been there when I signed the NDA promising to keep our fake marriage a secret between me, Yom, and his team. “Just ninety days. Twenty-four of which I’ll have off.”

Even though I’d already broken my side of the contract by telling Merry what was going on, I stopped walking because I needed to be sure. “You and the rest of Yom’s people understand that, right?”

Ingrid hesitated, then appeared to decide to answer. “Yes. As your personal coordinator, I’m familiar with the terms of your contract.”

Wait. Personal coordinator? So what did that mean? Was she supposed to be my helper? My handler? Or maybe a spy? Either way…

“I don’t think I need—” I started.

“And until then, here’s where you’ll be living,” she interrupted.

She stopped in front of a sleek industrial steel door with a cursive R where the rest of the entrances had numbers.

“Wait. Yom’s putting me up in a North Loop apartment?”

And suddenly, I knew why the building looked familiar. I’d sent it to him back when we were house hunting, voice-texting: Maybe we should consider a smaller place until we’re ready to start a family. It’d be a nice change of pace.

His answer had come back instantly: I am never liking thought of living in building with other people and small quarters cramping style. You will be happy with house we choose after we spend first week there marking every room with our fucking.

So that was... a response.

One that had deflated me back then, but right now, it gave me hope. Yom would never lower himself to living in an apartment. Maybe this meant I wouldn’t have to share a space with him like I had during the Anything List month. Maybe?—

The door opened before I could finish that thought

To reveal Yom. Wearing nothing but gray sweatpants.

Heat crawled up my throat as I took in muscles even sharper and leaner than six years ago. Seriously, why did my worst mistake insist on looking like a billboard for a company whose entire marketing plan was just one word: SEX ?

“You are here.”

“I’m here.” My voice came out squeakier than I wanted it to, and I had to clear my suddenly dry throat. "Yes, I'm here, as contracted."

His gray gaze dragged up my body in a way that made me feel like I was half naked, too, despite my jeans and carefully curated tee.

Then he regarded me with a look. One long, hungry look. Like he was staring straight into my soul. And peeping that I didn’t hate the sight of him, nearly as much as I wanted to—as I truly, truly should.

“Welcome home, zhena ,” he said—right before he pulled me into his arms to begin the official kickoff of our ninety days of fake marriage with a very real kiss.