chapter 13

DMITRI

Even though it’s been a week, I can’t shake the image of Igor holding Ana’s hand. It’s etched into my mind, like a splinter I can’t dig out. Every detail from that night keeps replaying in my head—her in that emerald dress, her body practically sculpted by the fabric, the way the neckline teased just enough to drive me mad.

I remember how I first saw her that night, walking into the garden like she owned the place. The dress clung to her curves, her cleavage perfectly framed, leaving me hard as a rock just from looking at her. The way she carried herself was infuriatingly captivating, each step drawing every eye in the room, mine included.

I told myself it was nothing. That I didn’t care. After all, I’d thrown that damn party to show her exactly what she was—a trophy. Nothing more. But when I caught one of the men staring at her too long, a possessive anger surged inside me.

Why the hell would I be jealous?

I don’t even like her.

Or so I keep telling myself.

It doesn’t matter, I thought then.She’s just another pawn in a bigger game.

“Sir,” Janet’s voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. “Mrs. Orlov asked for another thirty minutes. She needs time to change.”

Of course she does.I smirk to myself. Ana is likely stalling, dreading going to the event we’ve been invited to. I anticipated this, so I told her we needed to leave an hour earlier than necessary. Even if she drags her feet, we’ll still be on time.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, seeing a message from Lucia.

Will you bring your wife? You know you don’t have to, right?

I roll my eyes and toss the phone to the far end of the couch, just as I hear the unmistakable click of heels on the hardwood floor.

I turn around, and every thought in my mind evaporates.

Ana stands there, just a few feet away, dressed in a deep red gown that hugs her body in all the right places. The satin fabric shimmers in the light, draping her figure like it was made just for her. Around her neck, a simple diamond necklace glimmers against her skin, but it’s her lips—painted a bold, sultry crimson—that draw my gaze. They look utterly, undeniably kissable.

My breath hitches.Fuck.All the blood in my body seems to rush south as I stare at her, and for the first time, I can’t deny it. I’m attracted to Anastasia Orlov. She’s like a fire, thawing out the ice I’ve kept around my heart for far too long.

She clears her throat, her curt tone snapping me out of my daze. “Are you ready?”

I blink, struggling to pull myself together. “You took your sweet time,” I say, though my voice lacks its usual edge. Her beauty has dulled my sharpness, and that realization grates at me.

I’m in trouble.

She doesn’t bother to respond, just walks past me toward the exit. I can’t help but watch her, the gown flowing with every step, accentuating the curve of her hips. Her ass sways with a rhythm that makes my mouth dry.

I’m starving.For her.

The car stopsin front of the event, and I step out first, walking over to open Ana’s door. She takes my hand, sliding one leg out just enough to reveal a glimpse of her calf through the slit of the dress. My jaw tightens.

The instant she steps out, all eyes are on her. The red carpet flashes with camera lights, and every lens is fixed on my wife.

My wife.

The thought crashes through me like a wave. She’s here to show the world who I am—what I can control, what I own. Nikolai Petrov’s daughter, draped in the finest gown money can buy. A woman most men can only dream about, standing next to me.

I offer her my arm, faking a smile for the cameras. It’s all part of the performance, after all. But inside, there’s something else—a possessive need to keep her close, to remind the world that she’s mine.

Inside the hall, Ana lets go of my arm as soon as the doors close behind us. The mask drops, and I know what’s coming.

“Did I put on a good enough show for you?” she hisses, her voice laced with venom.

I turn to her, frowning. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, frustration oozing from her every pore. “You said it yourself. I’m your trophy wife, right? Isn’t that whyyou had your designer bring over a gown like this? It must’ve cost a fortune. I hope it was worth it for the impression I made.”

Her biting tone makes my blood boil, but I manage to keep my expression neutral. “It was. You did well.”

Ana scoffs, the sound filled with derision. “I see. Well, I’m going to get drunk now, so if I have to play the part of the good little wife again, I won’t feel like throwing up while praising you.”

She starts to walk away, but I grab her wrist without thinking. She turns, eyes blazing with fury, and for a moment, we’re locked in a silent battle.

“You don’t want to do this here,” I warn quietly, my voice low and dangerous. “It’s your reputation that will suffer, not mine.”

I release her wrist, the unplanned action already irritating me. I didn’t mean to grab her. But the thought of her getting drunk, of another man leering at her the way they did at the garden party… It twists something inside me I can’t control.

“Don’t drink too much,” I add, covering my mistake. “I won’t have you embarrassing yourself—and the last shred of pride I left your father.”

Her chin lifts defiantly, her gaze never wavering. Then she storms off, making a beeline for the nearest waitperson. She grabs two glasses of champagne, downing both in quick succession.

Weirdly enough, I’m impressed.

But also, furious.

The rest of the night, I can’t stop watching her. I can’t stop thinking about how her presence in that dress, with that fire in her eyes, sends my mind into chaos. She isn’t just a pawn, not anymore. She’s something else, something I refuse to admit.

Something I want.

I can’t stand here, watching her, not when I have more pressing matters to attend to. But it’s not easy tearing my eyesaway from Ana, laughing with those men like she has no care in the world, like she’s not my wife.

I force myself to move, to shake off the tension gripping me like a vice. There’s business that needs handling, and I’m not the kind of man who lets emotions stand in the way.

But no matter where I go in this room, no matter who I speak to, the image of her keeps creeping back into my mind. That fucking dress. The way she looked at those men, as if they mattered more than the man she married.

Me.

An hour later, I’ve had enough. I cut off the conversation mid-sentence with the person I was meeting and make my way through the crowd, out into the cool night air, needing a moment to clear my head. I barely make it five steps when a hand grabs my arm.

Lucia.

“What are you doing?” I growl, shaking her off.

She smiles, stepping closer. “Keeping you company, Dmitri. Like old times.”

I give her a warning look, but she presses on, her fingers trailing up my arm.

Annoying as hell.