Page 26 of Under His Control
Oro Nero. Tomorrow. 7 p.m.
I stare at the screen, stunned. He really was waiting, like he knew I’d come around.
Like heexpectedme to.
I text back a simple response:okay.
Then I climb into bed, damp hair curling against the pillow, the towel still wrapped around me. I stare at the ceiling, my heart drumming.
What the hell am I getting myself into?
CHAPTER 10
TAYLOR
Oro Nero, theHospitium’s exclusive, signature restaurant, isn’t public knowledge. A private mirrored hallway leads to the unlabeled door.
In short, you have to be in Anatoly’s inner circle to get in, and tonight, apparently I am.
I arrive a few minutes early, nerves humming. The maître d’ guides me to a table near the window dressed in linen so fine it looks like poured cream. Beyond the glass, Vegas glitters against the purple hues of dusk, alive and pulsing. Inside, the lighting is soft gold and decadent.
I smooth the front of my vintage tea-length dress—ivory poplin, cinched waist, a bargain-bin miracle—and remind myself this is just a conversation. A negotiation. Not a date. Not a prelude. I’m here to discuss a contract. Not to melt when the man walks into the room.
The air shifts the moment he enters.
Anatoly is dressed in a navy-blue three-piece suit, the kind that doesn’t just compliment a man but sculpts him. The fabricis so dark it drinks in the light, the peak lapels framing his broad chest. The vest is fitted like it was sewn directly onto his body. The matte black Windsor-knotted tie draws the eye to his collarbone, to the throat I shouldn't want to kiss but desperately do.
I look at him, hating the way my body instantly responds. How the low thrum of heat starts between my thighs. My fingers actually twitch at the thought of tracing that tailored line from his shoulders down to his hips.
Our eyes lock—his icy blue to my startled brown—and everything inside me goes soft.
“Ms. Jenson.” His voice is beautiful. Deep. Dangerous. Impossible to ignore.
“Mr. Ovechkin.” I manage to stand and smile, even though my knees aren’t entirely on board with the plan. “Thank you for meeting me.”
He studies me. “Dinner felt appropriate.”
A waiter appears, seemingly conjured from thin air, and pulls back my chair as Anatoly takes his seat across from me. He orders a Super Tuscan without glancing at a menu.
Once the waiter retreats, Anatoly rests his forearms lightly on the table, gaze fixed. “Let’s begin with the contract, shall we?”
I hesitate, caught off guard. “Actually, before we dive in, I was hoping we could talk a little.”
He arches a brow. He appears surprised, though I mentioned it in the text I sent last night.
“You want to talk. About?”
“Yes.” I keep my voice calm, yet firm. “I feel that if I’m going to marry someone—even if it is for unconventional reasons—it wouldn’t hurt to know a little bit about the man behind the prenup.”
He tilts his head, his expression apathetic. “You’re aware this is primarily a business arrangement.”
“I am.” I smile politely. “But unless we plan on spending the next year in silence, a little conversation might help us fake it better in public.”
A long pause follows. For a second, I think he’s going to shut me down.
Then he exhales slowly, leans back in his chair, and murmurs, “Very well. What would you like to know?”
The question is repeated from yesterday’s office meeting, and just like that, the power dynamic shifts. Not enough to tip the scales, but enough to make me feel like I’m not just being handed a pen and a decision. I'm being listened to.
