Chapter Three

Chapter Three — POV: Alyssa Ambrose

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I knew what I was doing when I put on the outfit.

Black silk that clung to my tits like a second skin. The neckline dipped so low it may as well not have existed, and the skirt rode so high every step felt like a risk. My heels clicked as I walked toward the elevator, each step a silent “fuck you” to the man I was being sent to.

Nikolai Meadows.

The name tasted like ash.

Two days had passed since the dinner from hell. I still remembered my father’s words echoing like a death sentence. You’re marrying him. It’s already done.

And now, here I was, being shoved into the jaws of the devil because Daddy dearest needed a tech merger to save his sinking empire. He called it business.

I called it betrayal.

“You look... decent,” the driver said awkwardly, eyes flicking up and down my barely-dressed frame as he opened the car door.

Decent? Try whoreish. That was the point.

Let Nikolai think I was nothing but a spoiled brat with a shopping addiction and no self-respect. Maybe then he’d cancel the engagement, tear up the contract, and I’d be free.

Wishful thinking. But hell, I had to try.

The car slid through the icy Moscow streets like a shadow, silent and tense. When we pulled up to Nikolai’s skyscraper, I smirked.

Of course his building screamed “I own everything.” Black glass. Armed guards. A lobby that looked more like a throne room.

I stepped out of the car and strutted through those polished glass doors like I owned the place.

Let him see me.

Let him regret ever putting his name next to mine.

The elevator opened at the top floor, revealing his penthouse.

Dark. Expensive. Cold.

Just like him.

He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to me, suit hugging every inch of his muscular frame like it was stitched on by the devil himself.

“Nikolai Meadows,” I drawled, letting his name drag on my tongue like a dare.

He didn’t turn immediately. Instead, he sipped from a crystal glass, as if he hadn’t just sold my soul for a merger.

When he finally faced me, his eyes didn’t flick to my legs or my tits.

No.

They went straight to my face.

His expression? Unreadable.

No heat. No shame.

Just cold, calculated interest.

And that terrified me more than lust ever could.

“You dressed for attention,” he said finally, voice smooth and accented like dark wine.

I crossed my arms, lips curving into a sharp smile. “I dressed to make you regret choosing me.”

He stepped forward. Slowly. Like a predator.