You knew Dimitri’s act was just one big facade—an elaborate performance meant to impress your father and seal a business deal that had nothing to do with love. Your father had practically shoved you into Dimitri’s arms, insisting it was for your own good. But all you saw was a walking red flag in an expensive suit.

Dimitri Sergeyev was, without a doubt, attractive. He had the face of an angel and the swagger of a man who knew it. But beneath the surface, he was nothing more than a narcissistic asshole wrapped in designer cologne and daddy issues. The kind of guy who probably winked at his reflection before leaving the house.

He dominated every conversation during your painfully scheduled weekly dates—going on about stocks, power moves, his club, his cars, and the latest woman who “wouldn’t stop calling him.” You were pretty sure he only ever paused to sip his overpriced whiskey and flash you that rehearsed smile.

And you? You just sat there, playing the role your father cast you in: quiet, obedient, ornamental. You weren’t shy, but staying silent felt like the only control you had left. If you were boring enough, maybe he’d finally get tired of the game and walk away.

You were nearly positive he was hooking up with other girls, anyway. His club was crawling with women who threw themselves at him—and he was known for being a womanizer, not exactly subtle about it either. You figured he probably didn’t even remember half their names.

Dimitri leaned back in his seat, twirling the rim of his glass with that usual cocky smirk. Then his eyes flicked to you, scanning your face like he was trying to read a book written in a language he didn’t bother learning.

“You know,” he drawled, voice low and velvet-like, “you’re very quiet.”

You didn’t bother looking up. Instead, you took a slow sip of your drink, letting the silence stretch between you like

“Maybe you’re not as boring as you pretend to be” he muttered. “Maybe you’re secretly really cool but are to scared to show it.” He smirks.