Mafia King’s Bride

17. Ana

SEVENTEEN

ANA

“Flowers for you,” Steve announces as he strides into my office, holding a massive bouquet of white and red roses like it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to receive. “Met the delivery guy on my way in. Figured I’d do him a solid and bring them up.”

I stare at the bouquet suspiciously. “What about my signature?” I ask, wondering who would send me something like this. The only person who might send me roses is Yelena, and she’s more of a chocolates and cocktails kind of girl.

Steve shrugs. “I signed for you.”

Of course, he did. Because that’s totally normal. I should probably ask how, since delivery guys don’t just hand things over without verification, but I can already imagine him pulling some fast-talking nonsense. Not worth the effort.

I get up and take the roses from him, their scent hitting me as I inhale deeply. It’s nice—unexpected, but nice. A small smile creeps onto my face, though I can’t shake the curiosity gnawing at me. Who’s responsible for this?

“This came with it,” Steve says, holding up a pink envelope between two fingers like it’s a classified document.

I roll my eyes and snatch it out of his hand. “First, you shouldn’t sign for things addressed to me. Second, my personal life is none of your business. And third,” I gesture at the mountain of paperwork on my desk, “I’ve got a lot to do, so if you don’t mind…”

He clicks his tongue, then heads for the door, lingering for a beat, hoping I’ll crack and read the letter in front of him. When I don’t, he finally leaves.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I rip open the envelope, curiosity winning over. Inside is a folded note and when I see who it is from, my stomach drops. No way.

The note is short and to the point:

Anastasia,

I’d like us to have dinner. I’ll send my stylist to set you up with a dress. Or several.

—Dmitri

I read it again, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Dinner? Shopping? What?

I hold the letter up, staring at it like it might suddenly change into something that makes more sense. Dmitri sending flowers and asking me to dinner? Is this his version of an apology? Or worse...guilt over what happened between us?

It’s been days since we slept together, and while I’ve been trying to compartmentalize it—as in, shove it into a drawer and never look at it again—this is not how I expected him to follow up. I thought maybe we’d just avoid each other until the awkwardness faded into a distant, foggy memory.

But dinner? A stylist ? The whole thing feels so transactional. Of course, that’s exactly how Dmitri operates. I’ve been invited to a business meeting with a wardrobe requirement.

“What is this? A summons?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head.

The thought crosses my mind that he might be feeling guilty. But no, Dmitri doesn’t do guilt. Or if he does, it’s buried under layers of icy detachment. Besides, he hasn’t exactly made an effort to see me since we slept together.

I glance at the flowers again, my heart speeding up despite my better judgment. It’s the first time he’s ever given me a gift. Probably sent by his secretary, but still. It’s the thought that—nope, I’m not doing this. I can’t afford to get my hopes up.

“Dmitri wouldn’t know how to be thoughtful if it slapped him in the face,” I mutter, trying to tamp down any stupid expectations.

But damn it if he doesn’t know how to make a woman feel like a goddess in bed.

I give myself a mental shake. Focus, Ana. Flowers don’t mean feelings, and dinner doesn’t mean, well, anything, really. It’s probably a power move, and I’m not about to fall for it.

Just as I’m setting the note aside, there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I say, half expecting Steve to barge back in with another nosy comment.

Instead, a smartly dressed woman with a perfectly cut bob and designer sunglasses strides in. She’s wearing a tailored blazer paired with a boho-chic skirt—an outfit that would look ridiculous on me but somehow works for her.

She smiles and extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Andrea. Mr. Orlov sent me. You’re Mrs. Anastasia Orlov, right?”

I blink, connecting the dots. The stylist . Of course. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

“Great,” she says, all business. “It’s past noon, so I was thinking now’s the perfect time to go shopping.”

Shopping. Right. For dinner.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” I say, motioning to my desk full of paperwork. “Maybe in a couple of hours?”

Andrea shakes her head with the air of someone who’s had this conversation too many times. “I understand, but we’re not shopping for just any dinner. Mr. Orlov is taking you to a six-star establishment. You don’t just throw on any old dress for something like that. I have the expertise, but we need time .”

Six-star? Is that even a thing? Isn’t five stars the top? I’m clearly out of my league here, and Andrea knows it.

“I might get fired if I leave now,” I mumble, glancing at the pile of work on my desk. But honestly? Why am I even fighting this?

She waves her hand like my job is a minor inconvenience. “Mr. Orlov has already taken care of that. You’re free to leave when you want.”

I blink at her. Of course he did. Why would my actual job matter when he’s decided I need a makeover?

“And people will talk,” I add, grasping at straws. “If I keep leaving early, they’ll say I’m slacking off.”

Andrea leans in, dead serious. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then why should you care?”

Unfortunately, she has a point.

Instead of going for a classic red dress, Andrea insisted on sage green, a color I’d never have thought of but now realize was an inspired choice. The dress is understated but elegant, hugging my body like a glove with a fitted satin bodice that flares from the knee down. It’s almost off-shoulder, exposing just enough skin to feel both sophisticated and daring. The silver jewelry—a simple necklace and delicate half-drop earrings—completes the look without competing for attention. My hair is styled in an artfully messy updo, something I’d never manage on my own, and I have to admit, I look nice. Maybe even more than nice.

“You’re beautiful, Mrs. Orlov,” Andrea had said as the car pulled up to take me to the dinner. “Beauty like yours turns heads.”

I laughed it off, trying to dismiss the compliment. I don’t usually think of myself as the kind of woman who turns heads, more like someone who blends into the background unless I’m actively trying not to.

But as I step into the restaurant’s grand entrance, I’m reminded that this is no ordinary dinner. The place is stunning, with soaring ceilings, soft lighting, and live music drifting through the air. Everything about it screams opulence, like I’ve walked straight into a 1920s movie set. A smartly dressed host greets me with a polished smile.

“I’m meeting Mr. Orlov,” I say, trying to sound like I belong here, even though I’m not quite sure I do.

“Of course, right this way,” he replies, leading me deeper into the elegant space. Every detail—from the gleaming chandeliers to the rich tapestries—makes me feel like I’ve been transported to another world. A world where sage green gowns are appropriate, and Dmitri Orlov is waiting for me.

When I spot him, my breath catches. He’s standing by the table, impossibly handsome in a dark tailored suit. His hair is slicked back, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at me, dark and intense, like he’s seeing right through me.

He stands as I approach, extending his hand with a small smile. “Mrs. Orlov.”

“Mr. Orlov,” I respond, taking his hand. Though my heart’s racing, I feel more like a teenager at her first prom than a grown woman. I’m trying to play it cool, but I hear myself blurting, “I wouldn’t have missed this for the end of the world.” Great, now I sound overenthusiastic.

Dmitri just nods, his expression unreadable as always. He pulls out my chair with a quiet efficiency that feels more business than personal. “Please sit. I assume you’re hungry.”

I nod, sitting down and placing my bag on my lap, trying not to fidget. I’m hyper-aware of how fancy this place is, how out of my element I feel, and how Dmitri is both so close and so distant at the same time. The silence stretches on until my curiosity gets the better of me.

“I mean, I appreciate this. The flowers were nice. But...why?” I ask, unable to help myself.

He shrugs, his answer as cool as ever. “You’re my wife. No other reason.”

“Huh.” I try not to let the disappointment show, but I feel it settling in my chest. His answer is so mechanical, like he’s ticking off a box. I study his face, trying to read him, but it’s impossible. The Dmitri I know is all walls and armor, and tonight, even though we’re not fighting, I still can’t tell what he’s thinking.

And before I can stop myself, I blurt out the question that’s been nagging at me. “Is it the sex? Are you trying to apologize for that night? Because if so, you don’t have to. It was mutual, and this,” I gesture to the table, the whole evening, “really isn’t necessary.”

For a split second, I think I see a flicker of amusement on his face, but it’s gone just as quickly. He leans back slightly, his lips curling into a small smile. “I’m not doing this because of what happened that night, Ana. You’re my wife. It’s expected that I treat you right, regardless of our...situationship.”

Situationship. Right. I’d almost forgotten that’s all this is—a weird situation. Not a real marriage, not a real relationship. Just a deal.

I sigh softly, letting the disappointment creep in again. “I see.”

Dmitri tilts his head slightly, watching me, and I wonder if he can sense the shift in my mood. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Everything’s fine.”

He hands me the menu. “What would you like to eat?”

I glance at it, the words blurring together as I try to focus. I don’t really care about the food, but I pick something anyway. “Roasted beet salad to start. Lamb chops for the main.”

He nods approvingly. “Good choice. I’ll let the sommelier pair the wine.”

We fall into silence again, the weight of unsaid things pressing down on me. I try to act like I’m fine, but it’s hard when I can’t shake the feeling that this dinner is just another one of Dmitri’s moves. A way to control the narrative, to keep up appearances. I glance at him from beneath my lashes, wondering what’s really going on in his head.

How can someone be so attentive in one moment and so distant in the next?

“Excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ room,” I say, standing up quickly, needing a moment to clear my head.

As I walk away, I feel his eyes on me, that same intense gaze that always makes my heart stutter. I don’t look back, but I can feel the weight of his stare, like he’s trying to figure me out. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s as confused by this whole thing as I am.

“Can I help you, miss?” a hostess asks as I stand there, momentarily lost in thought.

I blink, snapping back to reality. “Oh, yes. I’m looking for the restroom.”

As I follow her, I can’t help but wonder what I’m really looking for, because it’s definitely not just the bathroom.

She gives me the directions, and I hurry away, trying to push down the urge to turn around again. Why does everything with Dmitri feel so intense, even when nothing’s really happening?

By the time I return, a server is already at the table with our starters and mains, setting down a bottle of wine. I sit back down, nodding at Dmitri, but my mind is a whirlwind of thoughts. We eat mostly in silence, and I poke at my salad, completely distracted by all the questions bubbling inside me.

What happens now? Where do we go from here?

I stare so hard at my plate, I feel like I could burn a hole through it with my eyes. I try to focus on the meal, but my thoughts are louder than the clinking of silverware.

How long does he plan to keep up this charade? Was tonight just another check on his list of duties?

“That was a lovely dinner,” I say as we step into the house, both of us lingering at the foot of the stairs. The food was, admittedly, incredible. The company...not so much.

Dmitri nods, his expression unreadable as usual. “Yes, it was. Thank you for joining me.”

Thank you for joining me ? The words feel so formal, so cold. I offer him a small smile, even though I feel like screaming. “Of course.”

An awkward silence falls between us, and we just stand there, staring at each other. My heart’s beating a little faster now because, even though this evening has been emotionally confusing, there’s a pull I can’t deny. His eyes drift to my lips, lingering there in a way that sends a ripple of warmth through me.

Maybe he’s going to kiss me. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment.

I stand there, frozen, waiting for him to make the first move. But the seconds stretch out, and nothing happens. It’s like we’re in some kind of silent standoff, neither of us willing to take the plunge.

Come on, Dmitri. Do something. Anything.

He doesn’t.

I take a step back, feeling the disappointment sink into my chest. “Uh, I should go to bed,” I mumble awkwardly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

For a second, it looks like he is about to ask me to stay, like maybe this could still turn into more. But he just nods, his face as unreadable as ever. “Alright. Have a good night.”

As I turn to head up the stairs, I’m hyper-aware of his presence behind me. Every step feels heavier, like I’m dragging my feet through quicksand. I could turn around, ask him to kiss me, or just do it myself. But I don’t. I keep walking, feeling this huge weight of regret building inside me.

At the door to my room, I hesitate for a second, my hand on the handle. It would be so easy to go back down and bridge this maddening gap between us. But I push the door open and step inside, closing it softly behind me.

And just like that, the moment is gone. The night feels long and endless, and I have a sinking feeling that sleep won’t come easy.

I should’ve said something. But instead, I’m left with this hollow feeling in my chest and the thought that tomorrow, everything will go back to normal. Whatever normal even is with us.

I lean against the door, sighing. Yeah, it’s going to be a long night.