Nikolai Volkov I watched her, amused.Alessia Moretti had stormed into my penthouse like a woman marching to war, her chin high, her posture stiff with defiance. She reeked of desperation, though she was trying—badly—to mask it behind confidence.And now, she stood in front of me, offering terms.A marriage with a deadline.One year.I rolled the whiskey glass between my fingers, studying her. She doesn’t understand the game she’s playing.“You think you can negotiate with me?” I asked, watching her closely.Her brown eyes, warm but filled with fire, didn’t waver. “I know I can.”Interesting.Alessia had always been a contradiction. She despised me, but she was also the only one who had ever dared to challenge me. Even as a child, she’d looked at me with those same defiant eyes, full of hatred, full of fire.And now, here she was, trying to outmaneuver me in my own game.I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my gaze locked onto hers. “And what makes you think I’d agree to
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