Chapter 2

Elena's POV

The private back room of the St. Regis lounge was bathed in low amber lighting, isolated from the soft jazz playing in the main bar.

I sat in the center of the leather booth, my posture straight, fingers resting on the black folder in front of me. Seven fifty-eight. I mentally rehearsed my delivery, expecting a broken man—someone in a cheap suit, twitching with nervous energy, desperate for a cash handout to cover his mounting debts.

At eight o'clock sharp, the door opened.

Dante Hayes was not slumping. Dressed in a dark shirt with the top buttons undone and a fitted black jacket, he moved with an effortless, dangerous grace that contradicted his reputation as a disgraced outcast. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark eyes locked onto mine the second he entered.

There was no desperation in his gaze. Only a quiet, intense weight that made my heart give an unwanted thud.

"Miss Rostova," he said, his deep voice unhurried as he sat across from me. "You sent for me."

"Mr. Hayes," I replied, keeping my tone crisp. "Thank you for being punctual."

He leaned back, resting an arm along the booth, watching me like a predator studying something curious. "So, what does the future head of Rostova Atelier want with a failure like me?"

I slid the twenty-page document across the polished wood table. "My twenty-fifth birthday is in thirty days. To secure my mother's controlling stake in my company, I need a legal husband. I am offering you a contract."

Dante looked at the folder, then back at me. He didn't blink. "Go on."

"A six-month legal marriage," I said, laying out the terms. "Upon a quiet, uncontested divorce, you will receive a wire transfer of five million dollars. The conditions are strict: zero physical intimacy, zero interference in my business, and zero expectations of romance. You are strictly a public escort for the board."

I waited for a flash of shock or greed. Instead, Dante picked up the document and lazily flipped through the pages, an unreadable smirk touching his lips.

"Five million," he murmured. "And all I have to do is stand next to you in a suit?"

"Precisely. An easy arrangement for a man in your financial situation."

Without asking a single question or trying to negotiate, Dante pulled a sleek black pen from his jacket and signed his name in a smooth script. He then leaned across the small table to hand the folder back.

His sudden proximity invaded my space, blocking the light. The subtle scent of rain and cedar hit my senses, spiking my pulse wildly.

"Five million to play your trophy husband?" Dante whispered, his voice vibrating right against my skin. "Deal, Miss Rostova. Just make sure you don't break your own rules."

I snatched the folder, stepping back immediately. "I don't break rules, Mr. Hayes. My assistant will contact you tomorrow for the marriage registration."

I turned on my heel and walked out to my waiting town car. As the vehicle pulled away into the night traffic, I let out a long breath, trying to convince myself I had won.

To steady my nerves, I looked back out the tinted window. The car slowed at a red light half a block away, giving me a clear view of the rain-slicked pavement under the streetlight.

Dante was standing near the curb.

He wasn't hailing a taxi. He wasn't walking away like a broke man who had just hit the lottery.

Suddenly, an unmarked black van with dark windows pulled up without headlights. Two broad-shouldered men in dark coats burst out, moving with coordinated speed toward him. Loan sharks or street enforcers, I thought, my stomach tightening. Men in debt fought dirty all the time on the west side—I expected a messy, desperate scuffle.

What happened next wasn't a street fight.

Dante didn't panic, throw wild punches, or scramble backward like a desperate man fighting for his life. Instead, his posture shifted instantly into something chillingly precise.

When the first man reached into his jacket, Dante didn't just strike back—he intercepted the movement with calculated, fluid precision. In two swift, brutal disarms that took less than three seconds, he broke the man's posture and swept his legs out, dropping him flat onto the wet asphalt without taking a single step backward.

The second man lunged from behind. Dante caught the incoming arm, used the man's momentum against him, and drove him face-first into the stone wall of the hotel. It wasn't sloppy, desperate violence born of a street brawl; it was the ruthless, practiced muscle memory of a trained professional.

Dante didn't even lose his breath. He calmly wiped a speck of rainwater from his sleeve, completely unbothered.

Before the groaning men could even regain their footing, two dark armored vehicles pulled up, completely blocking off the street. Men in sharp, uniform suits stepped out, moving in strict tactical formation.

Instead of threatening Dante, they stood at rigid attention and bowed their heads slightly. One of them held open the rear door, handing Dante a specialized phone. Dante issued a single, cold command before stepping into the back seat.

My breath caught in my throat. The blood in my veins turned to ice as my town car's light turned green and my driver accelerated into the night.

A man in debt could fight, yes—he could throw desperate punches in an alley. But a broke, helpless failure didn't move with lethal military precision, nor did men in impeccivabls tailored  suits bows to him. 

I sat frozen in the back seat, my fingers digging into the leather folder until my knuckles turned white. I hadn't bought a harmless pawn. I might had  just handed the keys to my life over to a dangerous man.