Page 25 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

But I wasn’t going quietly. I wasn’t going to be the meek, grateful victim he probably expected.

If he wanted a wife, he was going to get one. But he was also going to get Eleanor Beaumont in all her chaotic, stubborn, passionate glory.

And something told me he had no idea what he was signing up for.

I pulled the sheets up to my chin and closed my eyes, finally ready for sleep. In seventy-two hours, my old life would be over.

I couldn’t wait to see what came next.

Chapter 8 – Maxim

The knock on my office door came at exactly seven in the morning. Punctual, just like everything else about Eleanor. I’d been expecting this conversation since I’d left her room three hours ago, my skin still burning with the memory of her touch.

She walked in wearing one of Anya’s borrowed dresses, her hair pulled back in that high ponytail that made my fingers itch. But it was her eyes that stopped me cold. No fear, no resignation. Just pure, undiluted determination.

“I have conditions,” she said without preamble, settling into the chair across from my desk like she was negotiating a business deal instead of the terms of her captivity.

“Of course you do.”

“I want a real wedding dress. Designer. Something that costs more than most people’s cars.”

I leaned back in my chair, studying her face for signs of what game she was playing. “Any particular reason?”

“If I’m going to be your wife, even temporarily, I’m going to look fucking spectacular doing it. I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me look like a victim.”

Smart. Image was everything in our world, and she understood that instinctively. A woman who looked defeated would make me appear weak. But a woman who looked like a queen choosing her king? That sent a very different message.

“Done. What else?”

“I want one person on my side at the ceremony. Someone who actually gives a shit about me.”

“Who?”

“Zara.”

I thought about the blonde spitfire who’d walked into my office yesterday, all sharp edges and protective fury. Having herthere would be a risk, but Eleanor was right. She needed an ally, someone to stand with her when she took my name.

“I’ll make the call.”

“Thank you.”

She stood to leave, then paused at the door. “Maxim?”

“Yeah?”

“This marriage might be fake to you, but it’s real to me. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

The door closed behind her before I could respond, leaving me staring at empty space and wondering what the fuck I’d gotten myself into.

***

An hour later, I found Anya in her studio, sketching designs on her tablet. She looked up when I walked in, one eyebrow raised in question.

“I need a favor,” I said.

“Let me guess. This has something to do with your hostage bride.”

“She wants a wedding dress. Designer quality. We have seventy-two hours.”