Page 75 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
He returns his attention to his phone, and I push food around my plate some more, appetite completely gone now.
Get into the office. Find the laptop. Remove the drive. Get out without being caught.
Simple. Except nothing involving Dimitri Rudenko is ever simple.
“You’re not eating,” he observes without looking up.
“Not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat lunch either. The staff mentioned it.”
Of course they did. Nothing happens in this penthouse without Dimitri knowing about it.
“Just not feeling well. I’m fine.”
He finally looks at me directly, concern flickering across his features. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No. I’m just tired.”
“We could skip the rest of dinner. Go to bed early.” The suggestion carries heat that makes my stomach flip despite everything.
“I’m fine. Finish your food.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then returns his attention to his plate. I exhale slowly, trying to calm my racing pulse.
By the time dinner ends, I’ve almost talked myself out of it a dozen times.
Almost.
Dimitri stands, stretching slightly. “I have a call I need to take. Probably thirty minutes, maybe longer. Will you be alright?”
“I’ll read in the library.”
“Don’t stay up too late.” He crosses to my chair, tilting my face up for a kiss. Soft and lingering, like he has all the time in the world.
“I won’t.”
The lie tastes bitter.
I wait in the library exactly twenty minutes, book open on my lap but not processing a single word. My hands shake every time I think about what I’m about to do.
I stand on legs that don’t feel entirely stable. Cross to the hallway. Listen for any sound of staff moving through the penthouse.
Nothing. Just the ambient hum of expensive climate control and my own thundering heartbeat.
The study door is closed but not locked. It never is—Dimitri doesn’t lock doors inside his own home. Why would he? Everyone here knows better than to enter without permission.
My hand shakes as I turn the handle. The door opens soundlessly, well-oiled hinges making no protest.
The study is empty.
Relief and disappointment war in my chest. I step inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click that sounds deafening in the silence.
The room smells like him—expensive leather from the furniture, smoke from cigars he occasionally indulges in, something else underneath that’s just uniquely Dimitri. The scent is intoxicating and familiar and makes me feel like an intruder, even though I have every right to be here.
“Mrs. Rudenko has access to everything,”he’d said once.
I doubt he meant this.
