by Stella Gray
The Deal
Arranged Book One
Stella Gray
Contents
About This Book
Prologue
Also by Stella Gray
1. Tori
2. Tori
3. Tori
4. Tori
5. Tori
6. Tori
7. Tori
8. Stefan
9. Tori
10. Tori
11. Tori
12. Tori
13. Tori
14. Tori
15. Tori
16. Tori
17. Tori
18. Tori
19. Tori
20. Tori
21. Stefan
22. Tori
23. Tori
24. Tori
25. Tori
26. Tori
27. Tori
28. Tori
29. Tori
30. Tori
Also by Stella Gray
About the Author
About This Book
On my eighteenth birthday my father, the senator, gives me the gift he thinks every little girl dreams of.
The man of my dreams, and the wedding to match.
Stefan Zoric is heir to an elite worldwide modeling agency. Practically a prince.
My arrangement is simple, as far as sham marriages go.
I give him my virginity, behave as the perfect wife and he'll pay for the college degree my father found irrelevant.
But I don't want to be the perfect wife.
I want him to want me the way I want him.
I want him to confide in me.
But Stefan has secrets that he holds close, dangerous secrets.
And soon I'm wondering what kind of devil have I made a deal with?
Prologue
Stefan
I’m the kind of man who lives for control.
From the office to the bedroom, domination is my instinct—and I show no mercy when it comes to getting what I want. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that when I take charge, I always close the deal. And I never hear any complaints.
Not from my employees and sure as hell not from my women.
Tonight would be no exception. The handshakes, the easy grins, the raised glasses of high-end booze: it was all a means to an end as far as I was concerned. One more move on the chessboard, and one step closer to controlling KZ Modeling, the company my father had founded. The company he still controlled.
For now.
I leaned back in my chair, taking in the room. My father’s penthouse was luxury defined, and his private office was expansive, its richness accentuated by polished wood paneling and antiques. Never-read first editions lined the walls. Every object, down to the Waterford paperweights, was costly and rare. Just like everything my father treasured.
I checked the time on my Patek Philippe. “He’s late.”
“He’ll be here.”
Behind his desk, my father—Konstantin Zoric—poured himself a scotch. Macallan 25 Year, because in our world, image is everything. He cut an imposing figure in his signature monochrome charcoal. People said I looked like him, but most of the men in our family had the same dark hair, square jaw, full lips and olive skin.
He gestured toward me, offering me a glass. I took it but didn’t drink. Normally I’d go through the motions, act like I was one of the boys, but I needed a clear head going into this.
“Ah, here he is,” my father said as he stood to greet our guest.
An athletic, middle-aged man with ice blue eyes and gray streaks at his temples had been ushered into the office. His suit was well-made, cleanly tailored to his body. His tie was red. His lapel pin was an American flag. If I didn’t already recognize him from television, I still would have assumed he belonged in politics. The self-satisfied smirk was the cherry on top.
“Senator Lindsey, this is my eldest son, Stefan,” my father said, making the introductions.
“Welcome,” I said, already standing. I shook the senator’s hand, matching the strength of his grip. “A pleasure to finally meet you in person, Senator.”
He gave me a long, assessing look.
“Indeed,” he said, revealing nothing. “Glad you could make it.”
“Sit, sit! Let’s raise a toast to our joint venture,” my father said, passing a glass to Lindsey. “And to Stefan, entering fully into the family business at last.”
“And what a business it is,” the senator said. He eased into the plush leather. “You’ve got quite the little operation going. And KZM’s support is gonna go a long way toward securing—”
“The company is hardly small,” my father interrupted. He affected good humor, but I caught the edge in his voice, saw the way his shoulders drew back. “Tell me, Senator, can you name any other agency in the northern hemisphere that even comes close to the number of—”
Diplomacy has never been my father’s strong suit. “Živeli,” I cut in, raising my glass.
They lifted theirs, echoing their cheers, and we drank, the tension dissipating.
“Nice scotch,” Senator Lindsey said, after downing half his drink. “Macallan?”
My father grinned. “None other, my friend.”
“I usually prefer an American brand,” Lindsey went on, swirling the liquor around in his glass, “but what the hell.” He drained the rest and flashed his teeth at us.
I smiled back, put on a good face, but I was assessing the senator on my own. Looking for any signs of hesitation, a crack in the brisk façade.
What kind of man agreed to a deal like this?
Then I remembered that I was the kind of man who agreed to a deal like this. In fact, I was at the center of this deal, even if it hadn’t been my idea. But there was no other way.
“I think you’ll be very pleased with the terms of our agreement, Stefan,” the senator said smugly as my father poured him another drink.
“Oh, I will,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll all be coming out on top.”
We all shared a laugh at the innuendo. It was exactly the kind of talk that disgusted me. But I knew how to play the game.
“My son is very eager for this merger to take place,” my father added with a wink.
“No doubt. Keeping his eyes on the prize.” Lindsey turned to me. “Trust me when I say, you won’t regret this. And neither will I, I hope.”
I took a hard swallow of my drink. “We don’t deal in regrets here.”
“Only success!” my father added, gesturing around the lavish room like it was proof that he’d never tasted failure. “One conquest after another.”
“That’s what I like about you, Konstantin,” the senator said. “Always confident.”
“Always right,” my father corrected.
They exchanged the grins of men who had no qualms when it came to breaking out the Machiavellian tactics. Even if that meant manipulating the people closest to them.
Was I really any better?
Suddenly the room felt hot and small. Ridiculous considering the total square footage, and the fact that the temperature was always set at a cool 65 degrees. Still, I fought the urge to loosen my tie, reminding myself that the terms I’d agreed to would be worth it in the end.
I wasn’t a man who could afford to have second thoughts.
After all, this deal was the only way I’d convince my father to hand over the company. Even though I wouldn’t have full control, not yet—this was just my opportunity to step in as his right-hand man. A job I should have had years ago, after I got my MBA.
Frustrated, I took another gulp of the scotch in my glass. One drink wouldn’t hurt. It might even take the edge off.
My father could have put me in charge
of KZM right out of grad school. I knew the business inside and out, and I finally had the degree from U Penn to back it up. Instead, he’d shuffled me from one management role to the next, the executive positions just out of reach, making promises he never kept.
Until now. When he needed me to make a sacrifice for the greater good.
But now that a leadership role would be officially mine, I could start making moves. And once I was in charge…
I drank, not wanting to get ahead of myself. First step: Finalizing this deal.
“Cigar?” my father asked, pulling out a box of hand rolled Cohibas.
“Certainly.” The senator retrieved one, taking the time to smell it. Savor it.
Cigars had never been my thing; my mother had always hated the smell. It was one of the few things I remembered about her.
My father and the senator clipped and lit their cigars, reveling in the richness of it all amid talk of local politics. I topped off my scotch and took another drink. A long drink.
“…don’t you think so, Stefan?” my father was saying.
I grinned easily. “Without a doubt.” I was never this distracted. I had no idea what I’d just agreed with him on, and my collar felt too tight. Impossible, since my suits were custom made to fit me perfectly.
Morality be damned. I’d been working for this far too long to back off now. My dreams. My goals. My control. They were all within my grasp.
Even if people got hurt in the process.
“To our…mutually beneficial partnership,” my father said, getting up to refill our glasses.
“To a powerful union,” I added. I stood with my drink raised. Committing fully.
Clearly not wanting to be outdone, the senator said, “To the start of a beautiful relationship.” He winked at me as he rose from his chair.
I forced a smile. True to form, this meeting had devolved into a dick-measuring contest.
“To KZ Modeling,” I said.
“To family!” my father threw in, insistent as always on having the last word.
The senator laughed. “Indeed. To family.” We clinked our glasses and he clapped me on the back so hard I almost stumbled. “Welcome to the family.”
Also by Stella Gray
Arranged Series
The Deal
The Secret
The Choice
Tori
Chapter 1
Tonight I felt like Cinderella. My Marchesa dress matched the cool blue of my eyes, the full skirt embellished with silk flower petals and subtle embroidery that gleamed in the light. Thanks to some last-minute tailoring, it fit me like a glove. Such were the benefits of having a wealthy, influential father who wanted me to look my best for my eighteenth birthday party.
Even if it was a little hard to breathe.
The outfit, the whole presentation, was an homage to the rags-to-riches story my father loved to trot out for all his campaigns—how his family had come from nothing, working their fingers to the bone to give him the opportunity to make a difference. His own male version of the Cinderella story. So here I was, an emblem of his success and power. Freshly eighteen and ready to take on the world. I hoped I’d live up to his expectations. And my own.
I took one last look in the mirror, practicing my smile as I adjusted my tiara.
“Carpe noctem,” I whispered. “The night is yours.” That, at least, was true.
I headed downstairs toward the murmur of voices, the tinkling of glasses, and the soothing sounds of the chamber orchestra. It was almost like a royal ball. And it was all for me.
At first, I hadn’t been excited about the event. The only ‘parties’ my father had thrown at our luxurious Springfield home over the years had all been fundraisers for political races. Hopelessly boring despite—or maybe due to—the fact that I was fully capable of keeping up with the guests’ endless political discourse.
My father had promised tonight would be different.
“And if you do well, there will be a big surprise in it for you,” he had told me.
I knew I was too old to be excited about birthday surprises, but I couldn’t help the anticipation building inside of me. Was he finally going to give me the tuition money I needed to attend the University of Chicago in the fall? Their prestigious, uber-competitive linguistics program offered classes I hadn’t seen anywhere else, and I’d be able to study Old Church Slavonic, Turkish, and Greek. It was my dream.
“Prosciutto-peach canapé, miss?” a bow-tied server asked as I descended the final curve of the Calacatta marble staircase.
“No thank you,” I said with a smile. The truth was, I was too nervous to eat.
The day I’d gotten my acceptance letter was the best, and worst, of my life. I hadn’t partied away my senior year like everyone else at my private, all-girls preparatory academy, and it had paid off. UChicago was awarding me a partial scholarship, based on my GPA and a passionate personal essay I’d spent weeks writing. But it turned out my father was too wealthy for me to get a full ride—and he refused to pay the rest of the tuition. My own savings didn’t even get me close.
“No one wants to marry a woman with a snooty degree, sweetheart,” he had reasoned.
I hadn’t given up, though. I had subtly—and not so subtly—been singing the praises of the program, and its real world benefits (diplomatic functions, ease of traveling, better conversations at cocktail parties, etc.) for months, hoping to change my father’s mind.
Maybe it had finally worked.
I scanned the ballroom with a sinking heart. I didn’t see my father, nor a single other face I recognized. The party was fancy and glamorous, of course, but looked to be solely attended by guests my father’s age, or older. Just like always. That was what happened when you spent your formative years working your ass off to stay permanently on the honor roll. Zero social life. I’d invited Grace, my SAT study partner and only friend, but she was on a ritzy vacation in Spain.
“There’s the girl of the hour,” a soft, feminine voice crooned from behind me. I grinned. I’d recognize that southern accent anywhere.
My stepmother, Michelle, was gliding over with a champagne flute in her hand, smiling as she led a stooped older gentleman toward me. He looked like the crotchety old grandfather type. In contrast, Michelle was blonde and buxom, impeccable in her skirt suit and Jackie O. pearls—always the perfect image of a politician’s second wife.
“Woman of the hour,” I corrected. These things mattered. Words mattered. “Soon to be heading off into the world on my own. Because I’m an adult now.”
“Of course you are,” she groaned. “And that means I’m getting older. Couldn’t you have just stayed six years old forever? I’d better buy up stock in Botox.”
We all laughed.
I loved Michelle. My mother had passed when I was young, too little to remember much about her, and Michelle entered my life soon after. She’d never attempted to replace my mother, which I appreciated, and we’d always been more like friends than stepmother and daughter. She was a southern belle, through and through, and had taught me the importance of appearances in all their forms. Especially when it came to my father.
“Victoria, I’d like you to meet Congressman McDonnell,” Michelle said by way of introduction. Using my full name was code between us: she didn’t know him well and it was best to keep up my guard. “We just met, over a champagne tray.”
“Happy birthday, and congratulations on your recent graduation,” McDonnell said. He leaned closer, a gleam in his eye. “I plan to persuade your father into supporting a new environmental proposal by getting in your good graces. Do you dance?” He held out his arm.
“How devious of you,” I responded, warming to him instantly. “And of course I do.”
McDonnell was surprisingly light on his feet, and I found that I was actually enjoying myself.
“I heard you were VP of your school’s Latin club. Blessed with beauty and brains, eh? I believe the phrase is ‘quidquid Latine dictum…sit altum
videtur’?” he said with a wink.
I laughed. “‘Anything you say in Latin sounds profound,’” I translated delightedly.
I’d been obsessed with language—its history, its influence—since I was little, and as the daughter of a politician I’d seen firsthand how words could be used to change people’s minds. My father was an expert at it. In fact, my logophilia—my love of words—came from him. From a young age, he was always quizzing me on vocabulary. Always urging me to choose my words carefully.
Suddenly, though, I found myself speechless.
Across the ballroom, in a shawl-collar tux that looked like Tom Ford had made it just for him, was the most attractive man I’d ever seen in my life.
Raw, animal magnetism seemed to emanate from him. He was dark and handsome and strong-jawed, the sleeves of his jacket hugging broad, sculpted shoulders. His posture was both laid-back and confident. When he threw his head back to laugh, I felt a tightening in my gut. I wanted nothing more than to be in on the joke.
“Victoria?” the congressman broke in. “Are you alright?”
I’d stopped dead in my tracks.
“Sorry,” I said, realizing I had been holding my breath.
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