The next night, I find myself waiting in the backseat of another one of Vince’s stupid, expensive cars, my fingers obsessively smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my dress.
This time, it’s black. Not red like for Katerina. Not green like for Irina.
Black. Like I’m in mourning.
Shit, maybe I am.
Vince sits across from me, scrolling through emails on his phone, acting like everything is normal. “We’ll be meeting Anastasia at Le Bernardin,” he says without looking up. “I expect this will be the most tedious one yet.”
“And why is that?” I ask, hating how my voice still breathes a little faster whenever he speaks directly to me.
“Because she’s my father’s top choice.” He finally looks at me. Tonight, his ice-blue eyes have the flat sheen of glaciers. They reveal absolutely nothing. “The perfect alliance. Her father controls half the docks. Mine controls the other half. A merger made in heaven.”
My stomach gurgles. “Sounds romantic.”
His lips quirk into that almost-smile that makes my thighs clench. “Jealous, Ms. St. Clair?”
“Of course not,” I lie. “I’m just your assistant, remember? Here to make sure things run smoothly.”
“Is that all you are?”
I look out the window rather than answer. The city lights blur past, each one a bright, burning reminder of how far out of my league Vince Akopov really is.
Of course I’m jealous. I’m drowning in it.
I’ve been trying to tell myself that what happened between us was just sex. Just the inevitable explosion of five years of pent-up fantasy finally finding release.
But it wasn’t.
Not for me.
And now, I have to sit here and watch him court the woman who might actually become his wife.
I think I might be sick.
“Showtime,” Vince announces as the car slows to a stop.
I draw in a deep breath, center myself, and step into my role. Professional. Detached. Completely unaffected by the way his cologne makes my heart race or how I still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin.
Le Bernardin is even more pretentious than the last spot. The kind of place where the menu doesn’t list prices because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
We’re shown to a table where a stunning woman is already waiting. Anastasia Kuznetsov is everything I’m not—tall, elegant, with sleek dark hair pulled into a chignon so perfect it looks painted on. Her dress is worth more than I’ll make in ten years of crawling through life on my knees.
Worse yet, she looks like she belongs in it. Whereas every eye that rakes up and down my outfit knows I’m just an overmatched little girl playing dress-up.
“Mr. Akopov,” she says, extending her hand. “How lovely to finally meet you.”
Vince takes her hand. “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Kuznetsov.”
I stand awkwardly behind him, invisible as always. The decorative third wheel.
“And this must be your assistant,” Anastasia says, turning those calculating eyes on me. “Father mentioned you bring her to all your… meetings.”
“Rowan St. Clair,” I mumble before Vince can introduce me. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She assesses me with a single glance, taking in my nervously twisted hands, my chewed nails, my lip swollen from clamping down on it.
I see the moment she dismisses me as a threat.
If only she knew how right she is.
“Will you be joining us at the table?” she asks, clearly expecting the answer to be no.
“Ms. St. Clair will be dining with us,” Vince says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I find her insights valuable.”
Anastasia’s perfect eyebrow arches. “How progressive of you.”
We sit, and I immediately feel like a child at the adults’ table. The silverware has too many pieces. The menu is in French. The wine list is thicker than my apartment lease.
“So,” Vince begins after we’ve ordered, “your father speaks highly of your business acumen. Dual PhDs, was it?”
“International Relations and Economics,” Anastasia confirms. “Though I find academic credentials rather tedious to discuss over dinner.”
“What would you prefer to discuss?”
She glances at me, then back to Vince. “Perhaps your intentions regarding this arrangement? I believe we both understand what our fathers hope to achieve.”
I take a too-large sip of water, nearly choking. At least she’s direct.
“My intention is to fulfill my obligations,” Vince says carefully. “As I imagine yours are as well.”
“To a point.” Anastasia smooths her napkin across her lap. “Though I wonder if you’ve considered that there might be… alternative arrangements that would satisfy the letter of our parents’ demands while allowing us certain freedoms.”
I freeze mid-sip. Is she suggesting what I think she’s suggesting?
Vince’s expression doesn’t change, but I notice his fingers tighten around his water glass. “I’m listening.”
“Marriage is a contract,” she says, coolly logical. “One that can have clauses, amendments, and understandings between the parties involved.”
“You’re suggesting a marriage of convenience,” Vince infers. “With side benefits for each of us.”
“Precisely.” She takes a delicate sip of her wine. “I have no interest in a traditional arrangement, and I suspect neither do you.”
Vince’s eyes flick briefly to me, so quickly I almost miss it.
But Anastasia doesn’t. She follows his gaze, reassesses me with new interest.
“I see,” she says softly. “Well, that makes things even more interesting.”
My face burns. I suddenly find the table setting absolutely fascinating. Is that a salad fork or a dessert fork? Who knows? Not me, that’s for sure.
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” Anastasia asks, looking at me directly. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Akopov privately.”
Before I can respond, Vince interjects. “Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Ms. St. Clair.”
Anastasia’s smile is knowing, almost conspiratorial. “As you wish.” She leans forward. “I have someone, too. Someone my father would never approve of.”
“I see,” Vince says slowly. “And this person is…?”
“His name is Daniel.” Her voice softens when she says it, and for the first time, I see a crack in her perfect facade. “He’s American. A doctor. We met at Columbia.”
“Your father doesn’t know?”
“He would disown me.” She straightens her shoulders. “Just as yours would if he knew about the full extent of your preferences.”
Vince doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it, either. “What exactly are you proposing, Ms. Kuznetsov?”
“A mutually beneficial arrangement. We marry. Our families unite. The business prospers. And in private, we lead our own lives.”
I suddenly find it hard to breathe. Is she actually offering Vince exactly what he needs? A wife on paper who doesn’t care if he’s with someone else?
Someone like… me?
“An interesting proposition,” Vince says evenly. “But one that requires considerable trust between us.”
“Of course.” Anastasia’s eyes are sharp. “We would need absolute discretion from both sides. I assume your… assistant… can be trusted?”
They both look at me, and I realize with a jolt that they’re discussing me like I’m part of this arrangement. Like I’m the secret Vince would be keeping while married to her.
“Ms. St. Clair’s loyalty is not in question,” Vince growls, his voice suddenly hard.
“Good.” Anastasia smiles thinly. “Then we should discuss the practical details.”
As they begin talking business—dowries and contracts and family expectations—I sit in stunned silence.
This is insane. They’re negotiating a fake marriage right in front of me, with the unspoken understanding that Vince and I will continue… whatever this is between us.
I should be horrified. At the very least, I ought to be insulted at being treated like the mistress-in-waiting.
Instead, a tiny, terrible spark of hope flares in my chest.
If Vince married Anastasia with this arrangement, he’d get his inheritance. His father’s approval. Everything he needs to secure his position.
And maybe—just maybe—he’d also get to keep me.
The thought is as thrilling as it is pathetic. I know that if he offered me that role—the secret on the side, the woman in the shadows—I’d probably take it.
Because I’d rather have pieces of Vince Akopov than none of him at all.
God, I’m so screwed.
