"Mine,” he says, delivered in Russian. A word I know well now. "Finally, officially, forever mine."
"Yours," I try to say it in Russian, but fumble the pronunciation, so I switch to English. "Now let's get through this reception so you can prove it."
The reception is… too much.
Private garden. More gold. More ornate everything. Tables covered in food I don't recognize. Champagne flowing. String quartet playing. Everything lavish and formal and intimidating.
And people. So many people.
I sit beside Ivan at the head table, trying to remember the names and faces from the stack of photos he made me study.Morozov? Ivanov? Which one had the daughter who wanted him? Or was that the niece?
And are the Volkovs even here? Or are they still hiding after Dmitri?
My chest tightens. My brain starts building scenarios like a doomsday machine—who hates me, who's plotting, how fast this could all fall apart.
"Stop."
Ivan's voice cuts through the noise. Firm. But just for me.
His hand closes around mine under the tablecloth, steady and warm. "You're spiraling again."
I swallow. "I'm fine."
He gives me that look—the one that saysDon't lie to me."You're thinking too much." He leans in, mouth close enough that I feel the words. "Don't. I married you for a reason."
"These people?—"
"Don't matter." His thumb strokes my wrist. "Look at me."
I do.
The rest of the room blurs out. His eyes are calm. Certain. Like he already decided the world will bend around that certainty.
"You belong here because I say you do," he says. "That's the only rule that matters."
He hands me a crystal flute—champagne fizzing like gold. Then he stands. The knife hits glass. The sharp ring cuts through conversation, and the garden goes still.
"I want to make something very clear," he says. His voice fills the space without effort. "Anyone who disrespects my wife answers to me, and I don't believe in warnings."
Silence. The kind that hums.
"Some of you know what happened to Dmitri Volkov." He pauses long enough for the air to tighten. "You know what I did when he put his hands where they didn't belong. Keep that image. Use it if you ever forget yourselves."
Nobody moves.
"I'm the Pakhan of the Petrov family. Some of you served under my father. You respected him. You should have. He built this." Ivan lifts his glass, then lowers it again. "But he's gone. He ruled with tradition. I respect that. But I'm not him."
He looks around, meeting eyes and demanding their gaze.
"I still believe in strength. In loyalty. In results. But I also believe in choice. I chose my wife. I chose to build a life worth keeping."
His hand finds my shoulder, a subtle claim.
"Some of you think I should've married into your families. Strengthened alliances, sealed deals. You're wrong." His voice hardens. "Alliances don't require marriage. They require competence. Loyalty. Profit. And that's it.”
A few smiles flicker—men hiding relief, or fear.
Ivan raises his glass again. "My wife reminds me that empire means nothing if there's no one to share it with. She makes me want to build instead of just burn."
