His hand moves over my thigh. Not sexual. It’s grounding, anchoring me to this moment so I can't float away into panic.
"I choose you." His voice is certain. "Only you. No arranged marriages. No Bratva princesses. No political alliances. I chooseyou."
The restaurant tilts slightly, but that could be my mind reeling. It’s hard to tell when your entire world is rearranging itself at light speed.
"Ivan—"
"The last step." He doesn't let me interrupt. Doesn't give me space to deflect. "I want you to carry my heir. Myonlyheir. Rule beside me. Be Mrs. Petrov in every way that matters."
Wait. This is real.
The thought crystallizes.
This is him asking me to have his child. To be his wife. To rule a criminal empire.
Real Bratva royalty. Real violence. Real risk. Real forever.
I knew this was coming. After yesterday. After the shopping, the penthouse, the sex on every surface. After "I love you" in silk sheets. After choosing to stay when I could have run.
But why now? Why here?
The weight crashes over me all at once, suffocating me.
This is the price of fucking Bratva lords. Of wearing ten-thousand-dollar dresses and living in penthouses with views that make you forget other people exist. Most importantly, the price of loving someone like him.
No. Not someone like him.
Him specifically.Ivan.
Why does saying yes feel so impossibly hard?
I look around the restaurant, desperate for air. Space. Perspective.
All these people eating expensive food. Drinking pricey wine. Wearing luxury clothes. Living lavish lives.
But they're normal. Right?
They have normal partners. Normal jobs. Normal problems. Traffic. Taxes. Whether to renovate the kitchen. What school to send the kids to.
Nobody's brutalized in their name. Nobody's running from rival crime families. Nobody's sitting at dinner wondering if their boyfriend killed someone today, might kill someone tomorrow, and will definitely kill someone next week.
Why do I suddenly want that? The boring. The safe. The predictable.
If I say yes, will this be my life? Constantly looking over my shoulder? Always wondering when violence will find us? Never knowing if today's the day it all falls apart?
Can we ever be normal?
Wait. Why do I want Ivan to be normal?
Wasn't the whole point the thrill? The danger wrapped in safety? The darkness that makes everything else feel alive? Isn't that what I've been craving for months? What I drew in those secret sketches?
Or does the thrill stop the moment reality hits? When you have to live in the web instead of fantasizing from safety?
FUCK. Why am I overthinking this?
Just say yes. Be his queen. Live in luxury. Have a life most women dream about.
Except—
