Chapter 2 Two

Georgia

For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. My chest tightened, ears ringing, because surely the word that had just rolled so casually off his tongue couldn’t be marriage. Definitely not from him.

But when I looked up, he was still there, Rhys Mikhailov, lounging in his leather chair like a king on his throne, the firelight painting his sharp jaw in gold. One hand toyed with a glass of bourbon, swirling it lazily, as if he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in my chest.

“Excuse you?” I whispered, my voice shaking. “What marriage?”

He raised a brow before nodding towards the file before me. “You’ll be excused, Georgia, if you pick that up and see for yourself.”

My eyes dropped to the file he had shoved toward me earlier. With hesitant fingers, I flipped it open, and my breath caught.

This Bitch ass fucker wasn't kidding. I pulled out a wedding invitation from the file. White cardstock, so elegant, with my name printed in gold lettering alongside his.

I stared at it, at the embossed roses, the gilded lettering. My lips stretched into something between a sneer and a scoff. “You messed up bastard… you actually planned this—”

“Planned?” His mouth curved, smooth as velvet, but his grey eyes gleamed with danger. “No. I don't plan. I ordered. Manhattan adores a spectacle. They’ll enjoy seeing their little celebrity reporter walk down the aisle with the man she tried to ruin.”

My throat tightened. He wasn’t even hiding it. The audacity, the showmanship. He wanted this public. He wanted to humiliate me.

“What does marriage have to do with anything?” I snapped, voice rising. My chair scraped hard against the floor as I shot to my feet. “You’ve already destroyed me, Mr. Mikhailov. Isn’t that enough? You had me fired, blacklisted, dragged here like some animal, what more do you want?”

He leaned back in his chair, calm, sipping his bourbon like this was nothing more than business. His tone was clipped but threaded with an infuriating tease. “Destroyed you? Don’t be dramatic. I’m giving you something better than the career you lost.” His eyes locked on mine, unblinking. “A future. My name.”

I laughed, though it cracked halfway. “You’re insane if you think I’d ever marry you.”

He tilted his head, amused, then gestured at the invitation with the rim of his glass. “I don’t know what you like. I had the best people design that. Do you approve?”

My skin crawled at how he was enjoying this. My disbelief burned hotter than the fire crackling in his hearth. Marriage wasn’t supposed to be part of my punishment, but here he was, not only plotting it, but savoring my reaction, and asking if I approve of something I burned to tear into shreds.

“You’re sick,” I hissed. “This is twisted even for you.”

“I prefer thoughtful,” he said smoothly. “This way, I don’t just take. I give.” His lips curved into that half-smile that made my stomach tighten in ways I hated. “I give you my protection. My power and of course my empire. I might let you keep your job too if you stop being a nuisance.”

“You arrogant—”

“You’ll be my wife in a week, Georgia,” he cut in, voice final yet infuriatingly calm. “And yes, even if I have to drag you down that aisle in chains, you’ll still be my wife.”

“I’d rather die,” I spat, trembling. “If this is the help you offered me, then—”

“Selene,” he murmured, interrupting me. “Isn’t that what your sister is called?”

The air left my lungs. My body froze. My sweet Selene, her face flashed in my mind, laughing on our last video call, talking about her anatomy exams. Fuck me. He wasn't joking when he mentioned killing something other than my career.

“Nineteen and a beauty, isn’t she? Ripe enough for the Black Markets.”

“No…” I choked. “No, the Black Market doesn’t exist. It’s a myth—”

Rhys rose then, straightening his suit jacket. His presence seemed to fill the room until I could barely breathe. He stepped closer, his grey eyes gleaming like steel.

“You’re a journalist, Georgia. You should know better.” His voice was soft, deadly. “Stories don’t spread without fire beneath the smoke.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

He smiled. “For Selene’s sake… don’t test me.”

My knees weakened, a violent shiver rolling down my spine.

Then, with a final sip of bourbon, he set the glass aside. “One week. Consider it my generosity. And my… humble help to you.”

And with that, he walked out, leaving me trembling on unsteady feet. Almost immediately, a man and a woman in black stepped inside and motioned for me to follow.

My mind was a fog as they led me out of his office. We took several turns before the woman stopped, opened a door, and gestured for me to enter. Instead, I faced her.

“Can I just go home?” I asked, my frustration slipping through. “I have a family to return to. Your boss didn’t completely render me homeless.”

The woman, with brown eyes much like mine and jet-black cropped hair, arched a brow before shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Mikhailov ordered that you remain here until tomorrow.”

“This is inhumane! You can’t keep me here against my will. I’ll go home and return to him later. Tell your Mr. Mikhailov that.”

“You’ve got no fear.” The sharpness of her voice startled me. It was so clipped, so cold, it sent a shiver down my spine. “Get in now—while we’re still instructed to handle you calmly. The alternative will be insufferable.”

Fuck me. They all seemed to inherit their cruelty straight from the devil himself. Without another word, I allowed myself to be pushed into the room. The moment I stepped inside, I gasped. The room was extremely big. Bigger than my whole apartment.

“You should be grateful you weren’t tossed into a dungeon or roughed up for what you wrote about the Boss,” she said. “You’d be surprised such places still exist. But Mr. Mikhailov is generously cruel, not barbaric.”

I glared at her. I already hated her.

“I didn’t ask for your mercy, Your Grace,” I snapped, sarcasm sharp in my voice.

She rolled her eyes. She didn’t like me either. Good riddance.

She ignored me. “Dinner will be served soon. Wash up and change out of those damp clothes. There are hundreds of designers in the closet—help yourself.”

“Screw them,” I muttered as she turned to leave.

“I heard that,” she said without flinching.

“Do I look like I give two fucks?” I shot back.

She scoffed, opened the door, and paused. “You’ll be eating your words soon,” she said, then shut the door behind her.

Alone, I paced the enormous room until my legs ached. I couldn’t let him decide my fate like some loser. Every turn made me more restless. He’s going to hurt Selene and my parents to force me into submission.

I shivered from the wetness of my dress. I was suddenly aware of how fragile I felt—one cold and I’d be useless. I needed strength, not sickness. Hesitantly, I ran a hot bath in the princess-like bathroom, then darted into the closet for something simple.

While rifling through the racks I found a face mask and a couple of hoodies. My heart thudded. A reckless, desperate idea gnawed at me.

If I’m careful and fast enough, I can save my sister and parents — and avoid marrying Rhys Mikhailov.

Perfect.