Page 9

I'm curled up on the living room sofa, engrossed in the latest thriller novel, when the doorbell chimes, echoing through the house. Curious, I set my book aside and sit up straighter, my ears perked. The click of the maid's heels on the hardwood floor is followed by the creak of the front door opening.

Muffled voices drift down the hallway—one is a woman's, light and friendly.

Intrigued, I swing my legs off the sofa and smooth my skirt just as footsteps approach the living room archway. A striking woman with long silky black hair and sharp black eyes enters, a warm smile on her pink lips.

“You must be Quinn!” she exclaims, breezing into the room. “I'm Lara, Mark's sister. It's so lovely to finally meet you.”

I stand quickly, taken aback by her genuine friendliness. Gathering my wits, I return her smile and extend a hand. “Lara! Hi. I’m afraid Mark isn’t home.”

She grips my hand tightly, her smile growing. “Oh, that’s too bad. When Vladimir told me about your engagement to my brother, I just had to come see him and figure all of this out. I can’t believe I’ve never met you! Congratulations on finally tying him down. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

Her eyes, so unlike Mark's, twinkle with joy and warmth. Maybe the Zolotovs aren't all stone-cold criminals.

“Not at all,” I assure her, gesturing to the sofa. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, perhaps? I was just about to make myself a cup.”

Lara nods eagerly. “Coffee would be wonderful, thank you. Black, please—I like my coffee as dark as my soul,” she jokes with a wink.

I laugh, deciding I like Mark's sister already, feeling some of the tension melt from my shoulders. “Two black coffees are coming right up. Make yourself at home, and I'll be right back,” I tell her breezily, heading for the kitchen.

As I bustle about pouring our drinks, I muse that Lara’s unexpected appearance feels like a test—to see how the outsider handles being thrown into the deep end with the sharks.

But she seems more like a playful dolphin than a bloodthirsty predator.

Still, I remind myself to stay on my toes as I carry our steaming mugs back to the living room.

After all, none of this family knows that our engagement is nothing but a ploy.

I settle onto the sofa next to Lara, handing her a mug.

She takes it with a grateful smile.

As we sip our drinks, I watch her more closely, noticing the genuine openness in her expressions that puts me a bit at ease.

“So, Quinn,” Lara begins, leaning forward conspiratorially.

I'm dying to know how you and my brother met. Given how quickly things seem to have progressed between you two, it must be quite the story.”

I feel my cheeks flush slightly, and I quickly take another sip of coffee to buy myself a moment. “Oh, you know, it's a long story,” I say with a casual wave of my hand. “Honestly, I think Mark should be the one to tell it. He has a way with words that I could never match.”

Lara laughs, a rich, melodic sound filling the room. “That's true. My brother does have a flair for the dramatic.”

“You’re telling me?” I roll my eyes, remembering how he kidnapped me.

“So, how’s it going?” she sings. “Settling in okay? Have you two set a wedding date?”

I nearly choke at the question. A wedding date? Damn, his family’s really buying this whole charade.

“Not yet,” I say nonchalantly. “You know your brother. Always so busy!”

Now, she rolls her eyes. “Don’t let him take you for granted! Make him work to keep you around.” She playfully shoves my shoulder with hers.

“Oh, I will,” I chuckle. Suddenly, an idea strikes me. Lara would know a lot more about Charlie Letvin than I do. Until now, I haven’t understood why Mark is so adamant about keeping me here, but Lara seems open, and something tells me she could provide what I need.

“Just the other day,” I tell her, “I threatened to break up with him if he didn’t take me on a nice, fancy date. I’m cooped in here all day, and the man never comes home before dinner!”

“I can only imagine!” she sighs. “My husband is exactly the same. So, where did you two go? Was it fun?”

“Oh, just a skyline bar,” I tell her. “It was fun, but something soured his mood,” I say in as casual a tone as I can manage.

She quips up, curious now. “Really?”

“Yeah. We met some guy. Charlie Letvin. He seemed to be a friend at first, but I could tell there was some history between him and Mark. I didn’t pry too much, though.”

Lara's expression darkens slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing behind her eyes. She places her mug on the coffee table, her posture stiffening almost imperceptibly. “Ah, yes. Charlie Letvin,” she says, her voice laced with distaste. “He and Mark have quite the rivalry, one that goes back years.”

I lean in, my curiosity piqued. “Really? What's the story there?”

Lara sighs, running a hand through her sleek, dark hair. “It's a tangled web, to be honest. They went to school together, always competing in everything. At first, it was just typical boyhood rivalry, but as they grew older and took over their respective family businesses, things turned uglier.”

She pauses, her gaze distant as if she’s lost in memory. “Charlie started to do underhanded things, little jabs aimed at undermining Mark and our family. Nothing overt enough to spark an all-out war, but enough to keep us on our toes. Mark knows that, given the chance, Charlie would stab him in the back without any hesitation.”

I listen to this information, information I already knew. My heart sinks with disappointment, wondering if there truly isn’t more to it. Just because of a past rivalry doesn’t mean I’d be in danger. I dig deeper.

“Strange man, that Charlie Letvin,” I comment. “He was also there with some woman. She looked…uncomfortable.”

Lara narrows her eyes at my observation, a flicker of concern crossing her features before she schools her expression into neutrality. “Yes, that wouldn’t surprise me. Charlie Letvin has a history, you know. A sordid one.”

Curiosity prickles under my skin as I lean in, the conversation taking a darker turn. “What kind of history?”

Her gaze sharpens, almost warningly. “Charlie Letvin is not the man he pretends to be,” she begins, her tone dropping into a low murmur tinged with caution. “He’s had… incidents in the past. Unsavory ones.”

I hold her gaze, now fully intrigued by the sinister turn the conversation has taken. “What kind of incidents?”

Lara hesitates for a moment, weighing her words carefully. “Let’s just say there are whispers within certain circles about Charlie and his... proclivities,” she says cryptically. “Things he’s managed to sweep under the rug: sexual assaults and such,” she whispers sadly at the last two words. “Some say he sent a woman to the hospital once because of how he brutalized her, but she didn’t have nearly the connections he did, and was forced to settle for money out of court. He’s always managed to silence the accusations, but I believe the women.”

My blood runs cold at Lara's words, a chill settling deep in my bones. I knew Mark believed Charlie Letvin was dangerous, but I hadn't fathomed the depth of his depravity.

“That's… horrifying,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper as I try to wrap my mind around the revelation. “And Mark knows about this?”

Lara nods grimly. “He does and has tried to put Charlie in his place. But proving anything against Charlie is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. He's cunning, manipulative, and has powerful connections that protect him from the consequences of his actions.”

Silence hangs heavily in the air between us. Knowing what I know now about Letvin makes my skin prickle. To imagine he was in my apartment, to think about what could have happened, suddenly helps me understand where Mark is coming from. A mild wave of gratitude washes over me. Mark might be part of the Bratva, but he’s not evil. He might have kidnapped me, but it was only to keep me safe. He’s never had any ill intentions toward me.

Both these men, from the same world, couldn’t be more different.

I meet Lara's gaze, my own expression resolute. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say sincerely. “It's helpful to have a better understanding of the dynamics at play here.”

Lara nods, a glimmer of respect in her eyes. “Of course. You're part of the family now, Quinn. It's important that you know what you're getting into.”

As we continue chatting and our conversation flows more easily, I genuinely enjoy Lara's company. Her insights and anecdotes paint a vivid picture of the Zolotov family, allowing me to see them in a new light—as a complex tapestry of individuals, each with their own motivations and desires, who love nothing more than their family.

At the center of it all is Mark, the man who has turned my life upside down in ways I could never have imagined.

***

That evening, I hear a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I say.

Mark steps inside quietly, leaving the door ajar behind him. He leans against the frame for a moment, one hand in his pocket, and I’m reminded of the first night we met at the bar. In this stance, with his side profile catching the light, he looks as handsome as he did that night.

“Hi!” I say, and stand to walk towards him, without thinking. Halfway through, I stop. What’s the grand plan here? Go over and hug him? Dear god, no!

I chide myself for my impulsive move, and he watches me closely. “Hi,” he says, standing tall and stepping toward me, his eyes locked onto mine.

His presence fills the space, commanding and magnetic, and I feel my pulse quicken despite myself.

“Lara came over today,” I state, taking a step back, trying to regain some semblance of control, all of which seems to have gone out the window at the unexpected sight of him.

“I see.” There’s a small frown on his face.

“We had a good time,” I add, and the frown wipes off.

“I’m happy to hear that,” he says. “I came in here to see if I could borrow you for a moment. I have something to show you.”

I raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued even as wariness coils in my gut over how civilized this conversation feels. “Oh?”

Mark nods, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Come with me.”

I hesitate for a moment, then follow Mark out of the room, acutely aware of his presence at my side. He leads me down a hallway I haven't explored yet, stopping in front of a closed door.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and I comply, my heart pounding in my chest as I hear the door swing open. Mark takes my hand, guiding me forward, and I feel plush carpet beneath my feet.

“Okay,” he says, his voice low and close to my ear. “Open them.”

I blink against the sudden brightness of the lights, and then my jaw drops. The room before me is a stunning home office, complete with a sleek desk, a state-of-the-art computer, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

“Mark,” I breathe, turning to face him with wide eyes. “What is this?”

He shrugs, but I notice the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “I wanted you to have a space of your own here,” he says. “Somewhere you can work on your business without distractions. I had it renovated, and,” he pulls my phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Here’s your phone, as promised. You should get back to your clients and parents. They must be worried sick.”

I gaze at the device, moved by the gesture. He kept his promise. I listened to his plan, and in return, he did his part. Could it really have been this simple?

I step further into the room, running my fingers along the polished surface of the desk. It's clear that a great deal of thought and effort went into this space.

“Why are you doing this?” My voice comes out hoarse at the unexpected kindness.

“Because, Quinn, as I said, I’m not keeping you prisoner. I’m simply trying to keep you safe and remind Charlie Letvin of his place in the world.”

Despite my reservations about this over-the-top gesture, I can't help but feel a flicker of warmth in my chest.

“Thank you,” I say softly, glancing back at Mark over my shoulder. “This is... incredible.”

He inclines his head, the faintest hint of a smile lingering on his lips. “I'm glad you like it,” he replies, his voice tinged with an emotion I can’t identify. “I want you to feel comfortable here, Quinn. In every possible way.”

The words send a shiver down my spine, and I turn away to hide the flush rising in my cheeks. “I appreciate that,” I manage, busying myself with setting up my phone and logging into my email. “Really, I do.”

“Get to work,” he whispers, but I hardly notice, given the number of emails I have to get back to. I walk over to the desk and turn on the computer.

I lose myself in my work; the familiar routine of emails and spreadsheets offers a welcome respite from the past few days. Minutes bleed into hours as I tackle my to-do list with single-minded focus, the outside world fading away until there's nothing left but the glow of my computer screen and the steady clack of my keyboard.

It's not until I feel the prickle of awareness along the back of my neck that I realize I'm not alone. I glance up, startled to find Mark leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me with an inscrutable expression.

“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.

He shrugs, a fluid ripple of muscle beneath his crisp white shirt. “A while,” he admits, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the room. “I didn't want to interrupt.”

I sit back in my chair, fighting the urge to fidget as he perches on the edge of my desk. “Is there something you need?”

His gaze sweeps over me, pausing on the loose tendrils of hair that have escaped my bun and the ink smudge on my fingertips. “I wanted to check in on how you were settling in,” he says, his tone remaining carefully neutral. “And I wanted to ask about your business. How's it going?”

I blink, caught off guard by the question. “It's... fine,” I hedge, unsure how much to reveal. “Busy, but that's normal.”

He nods, his eyes never leaving my face. “And your clients? Any interesting cases lately?”

I hesitate, torn between the desire to protect my clients’ privacy and the nagging feeling that Mark's interest is mere idle curiosity. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” I finally say, choosing my words carefully. “Just the usual mix of high-powered executives and trust fund brats looking for love.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich in the quiet of the room. “I can only imagine,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly. “It must be fascinating work, playing matchmaker for the rich and famous.”

I shrug, trying to ignore the way my pulse kicks up a notch at his proximity. “It has its moments,” I allow, forcing a casual note into my voice. “But at the end of the day, it's just a job like any other.”

His eyes glint with amusement, as if he can see right through my nonchalant facade. “Is that so?” he muses, reaching out to toy with a stray pen on my desk.

I look up at him, my heart skipping a beat as I take in how close he is. “Are you truly interested or just bored?”

He furrows his brows, as though offended at being asked that. “I was just thinking,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine, “about how impressive you are, Quinn. Building this business from scratch, handling all these high-profile clients... It's no small feat.”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. He’s truly interested. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice wavering slightly. “I've worked hard to get where I am. In the earlier days, I used to cold call a thousand clients before I landed one. Now, it’s simpler.”

“Word of mouth?”

“Word of mouth,” I nod in agreement.

“I’ve studied your work, researched it. The number of clients you help each year is impossibly large. The highest success rate in New York. Do you ever find time for yourself?”

His words struck a little too close to home, my parents’ words resurfacing to haunt me. All those times they worried about whether I was doing okay. “I'm not lonely,” I insist, though I don’t know to whom. “I have my work, my clients. That's enough for me.”

But even as I say the words, I know they're a lie. And from the knowing look in Mark's eyes, he knows it too.

“Is it?” he challenges softly, his gaze holding mine. “Is it really enough, Quinn?”

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. Because deep down, I know he's right. As much as I love my work, there's a part of me that yearns for something more.

Mark notices the hesitation in my eyes and presses his advantage, leaning in even closer. “There's no shame in wanting more, Quinn,” he whispers. “Success isn’t the be-all and end-all.”

I stare at him, my breath coming faster as I feel myself being drawn into his orbit. Every instinct tells me to run, to push him away, and to retreat behind my carefully constructed walls.

“Perhaps,” I say, turning to look back at my computer. “But there’s a lot more I need to achieve before I consider myself to have achieved some semblance of success.”

He chuckles, and I don’t look up when he leaves, closing the door behind him.