The man who still blames me for his son’s death.
My stomach drops for half a second before I lock it down. I've faced this man across a funeral that felt like an execution.
I've endured his lawyers, his threats, his attempts to bury me alive in legal paperwork and frozen assets.
I didn't break then. I sure as hell won't break now.
But I’d sure as hell prefer to avoid his company.
I glance at Vlad, my expression steady. He reads my resolve instantly and lifts one dark eyebrow.
"Stay," he says quietly.
It's not a suggestion. It's a test. He wants to see if I'll run or if I'll stand my ground.
Fine.
The silence stretches. I could stand. Walk out. Preserve whatever dignity I have left.
Instead, I cross my legs, smooth my skirt, and lace my fingers together like I belong here.
Because I damn well do.
I brace myself for the inevitable shit show to follow.
The doors don't swing open. They're thrust open.
Aleksander Volkov doesn't walk. He claims space.
He's dressed like royalty, as always. A deep navy suit tailored to perfection, a blood-red tie with a gold pin gleaming against his chest. His gray-streaked hair is combed back with surgical neatness, his eyes sharp and glacial beneath heavy brows. Carved from old stone. Absolutely menacing.
When his eyes find me, his face hardens into something worse than anger.
Like I’m a stain that won’t wash out.
A ghost that refuses to stay dead.
“It’s true, then,” he mutters. His voice cold, clipped, final.
Like I’ve already been buried and he’s come to make sure the dirt stays packed.
“Aleksander,” I say firmly.
I don’t call himfather.He lost that privilege long ago.
I don’t move. Don’t flinch.
My hands remain folded neatly in my lap.
I sit visible. Alive. In the one place he can’t touch.
Let him choke on that.
CHAPTER 2
TERESA
Bring it on asshole.
