Page 35 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

Something I couldn’t afford to lose.

“We need to go public,” I said instead of answering her question. “Show the world that you chose this, that you’re exactly where you want to be.”

“How?”

“A party. Tomorrow night. At the Bratva hotel downtown. Media, photographers, society people. We make it impossible for anyone to believe you’re being held against your will.”

Eleanor was quiet for a long moment, considering. “A performance.”

“A statement.”

“And after? What happens when the cameras stop rolling and we come home?”

I met her eyes, letting her see the truth I’d been trying to hide from myself. “Then we figure out what this really is.”

***

The Bratva owned the Meridian Hotel, thirty floors of glass and steel in the heart of downtown Chicago. It was the perfect venue for what I had in mind: elegant enough for high society, intimidating enough to remind everyone exactly who they were dealing with.

The guest list was a careful mix of media, politicians, business leaders, and just enough legitimate celebrities to makeit feel like a social event rather than a mob gathering. The kind of people who would spread the word that Eleanor Voronov was exactly where she wanted to be.

I stood at the top of the grand staircase, watching the crowd gather in the ballroom below. Photographers positioned themselves strategically, society reporters worked the room, and the beautiful people of Chicago mingled and gossiped.

Eleanor appeared at my side, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

The dress Anya had designed was a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that hugged every curve before flowing into a dramatic train. Eleanor’s hair was swept up in an elegant updo that showed off the diamond necklace I’d had delivered that afternoon. She looked like royalty, like a woman who belonged on my arm.

“Ready?” I asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

I offered her my arm, and we began our descent down the staircase. Every conversation in the ballroom stopped as heads turned to watch us. Camera flashes lit up the space like lightning, and I could practically feel the speculation crackling in the air.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turned to face the crowd. The room fell silent, waiting.

I lifted Eleanor’s hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that was both reverent and possessive. “Allow me to introduce you all to Mrs. Eleanor Voronov.”

The reaction was immediate. Applause, camera flashes, and the kind of murmur that meant gossip was already being born. I caught Ruth Beaumont in the crowd, her expression an artful mix of pride and something more guarded.

For the next two hours, we worked the room like the power couple we were pretending to be. Eleanor was flawless—her laugh just bright enough, her posture impeccable, her eyes never lingering too long on anyone but me.

“Maxim,” boomed Viktor Lebedev, a shipping magnate with hands like vises, “you didn’t tell me your wife was a vision.”

“She’s much more than that,” I said smoothly, introducing Eleanor. She charmed him with a compliment about his latest port acquisition, earning a pleased rumble from the man.

Across the room, socialite Lydia Harrington leaned in conspiratorially. “Is it true you met in Paris?”

Eleanor’s smile was silk and steel. “That’s a story best told over a very expensive bottle of wine.” Lydia laughed, already imagining herself at our table.

We spoke to tech tycoon Ian Mercer, who assessed Eleanor like she was a rare stock option, and heiress Juliette Moreau, who kept touching my sleeve until Eleanor’s hand found my arm in quiet possession.

“Mrs. Voronov,” murmured oil baron Alejandro Ruiz, kissing her cheek, “you’ve caused quite the stir tonight.”

“Good,” Eleanor replied without missing a beat. “It means people are paying attention.”

Rafael appeared at my elbow as she held court with a group of society matrons. “She’s magnificent,” he said.

“I know.”