The Player (The Game Maker #3)(49)

Benji casually mentioned that a nine-figure divorce settlement wouldn’t go amiss.

I’d never leave my family to the wolves. Two options remained. . . .

Now I glanced at my husband, sitting beside me in the limo.

He held himself very still, staring at me, taking in my reactions. How could he possibly read me when I didn’t even understand what I was feeling? I knew only one thing for certain: Dmitri Sevastyan’s generosity and trust had floored me.

Before I’d hung up earlier, Gram had asked, “Did you tell him the truth when you said you could love him?”

My face had burned to recall some of the other things Dmitri had told me just prior to that question (cough, wanton, cough). But again, I’d admitted the truth: “Yes.”

What if I lose the ring and gain a husband? Then I wouldn’t be such a bad person.

Maybe he needed me to defend him and his ridiculous wealth—from people like me. I could identify and ward off cons. I could protect him.

But keeping him would mean distancing myself from my past—and my family, to an extent. Rich people and con artists . . . cats and dogs.

Barely able to look him in the eye, I turned and surveyed the forest.

“I think you will like our new home,” he said, “but if you don’t, we will buy more houses until you feel at home.”

The second man today to call his house my home.

Had Dmitri’s fight with Brett been only hours ago? My ex would hear that my wedding had taken place; everyone would. I didn’t want to hurt Brett needlessly, but this news would force him to finally move on.

“You have been quiet since we left the courthouse,” Dmitri said. “And you hardly ate lunch.” A four-course affair with silver and china, served at thirty thousand feet. “Again, I struggle to read you. Just don’t . . . don’t regret this, Vika.”

I turned to him, my nerves getting the better of me. “You are going to regret it! You’re going to wake up and realize what you’ve done.” Again I told him, “You don’t know anything about me.”

He parted his lips to say something, then clearly rethought it. “I know enough.”

“Would you really have told me good-bye today?”

“Never,” he said like a promise.

I narrowed my eyes. “Then you lied.”

“Did I?”

Say yes or say good-bye. Tricksy Russian!

“Perhaps I manipulated you into this”—oh, not quite, Dmitri—“but I will never lie to you.”

My family had maneuvered him, plotting in the background, using Brett in the service of our biggest con.

Dmitri reached for his briefcase on the opposite seat. “I had my lawyers draw up a contract for you.” He pulled a folder out. “Here. I printed it before we landed.” Our jet had an office. Natch. “Read this, and sign it.”

Ah, the dreaded postnup. With all that talk about trust and spells and potentially love, I’d found myself getting caught up in the fairy-tale-esque nature of our courtship. Now reality reared its head.

Because fairy tales didn’t exist.

Though I would probably be divorced soon, I felt a twinge of disappointment in him. I opened the folder, finding only a couple of pages. One was the postnup, the second an identical copy. Both had been signed by Dmitri in a bold, sharp scrawl.

I read it, my bemusement deepening. “This . . . this says once the marriage is consummated, I get half of everything in the case of a divorce. Pretty much no questions asked.”

“I want you to feel comfortable about the international ramifications of this marriage. That contract will be filed in both the United States and Russia.”

Talk about trust. Or else craziness. “Are you dicking with me?” I would take a picture of the page and text it at the earliest.

“No. I am not.”

Only one thing about the wording pinged my suspicion radar. “Is a consummation clause standard in Russian marriage contracts?” To work my con, I’d have to sleep with him. It fully sank in that Dmitri Sevastyan and I would be having sex. Soon.

“Is that objectionable?”

“No, of course not.”

“If you will . . .” He gave me a pen.

I flattened my left hand on the page to sign, but my ring glared at me accusingly. Damn it! I faced Dmitri. “Look, why don’t we take care of business stuff tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to mull everything over?” asked the grifter who was one signature away from five hundred million dollars.

I was having a crisis of identity! All because of this man. His craziness was catching!

“Nyet. I need you to sign this now. I told you I dislike uncertainty. Do me this service.”

As in, do him a favor? He looked unbending.

Think of Mom and Dad, I repeated to myself. I signed my name to both copies and kept my own. Just because I could bilk Dmitri for half a billion didn’t mean I would. Right? I only need a nibble. “Speaking of uncertainty, will you tell me what you meant by issues?”

I got the sense he regretted mentioning that. “We have all the time in the world to discuss such things. For now, let’s enjoy our wedding day.”

As a grifter, I should let the subject drop right there. Nothing should be allowed to get in the way of our wedding day—and night—enjoyment. Consummation equaled payout.