“I’ve loved you since I was a girl,” she said softly. “Since the night you stripped your foster parents of their power. Since you ended them and took control of the Volkov family.” Her voice steadied as she spoke, conviction hardening it. “I watched you rise. I watched men fear you. And I wanted you. I waited—year after year—for you to look at me. Just once.” A fragile smile touched her lips. “You never did.”
I didn’t soften. Pity was a luxury I’d buried with my wife.
“Then perhaps it’s time you opened your heart to someone else,” I said evenly. “Penelope is dead to the world—but she is not dead to me.” My gaze held hers without mercy. “I cannot love another. You may force a marriage through politics once my current one dissolves, but you will never force my heart. Power doesn’t buy that.”
She stepped closer anyway. Brave. Or foolish.
“I have three months,” she said, voice steady despite the faint tremor beneath it. “You told me to open my heart—why don’t you try opening yours?” Her eyes searched my face, as if hunting for a crack. “Maybe I’m exactly what you need. Maybe you’ll love me in spite of yourself. I intend to use every one of these three months to prove I can be everything you want in a woman.”
Then, quieter—strategic, almost reverent—
“And I’m sorry. Truly. For what my father did. For taking Vanya.”
“You mean kidnapping a five-year-old boy?” I corrected, my voice dropping into something lethal and cold. The air seemed to tighten. “Using a child as leverage so you could worm your way under my roof?”
She swallowed, the delicate line of her throat moving. I didn’t give her time to recover.
I stepped forward until she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.
“You’re the Orlov princess,” I said calmly. “You’ve never learned what it means to follow rules. So listen carefully—because in this house, you will.”
I raised a finger.
“First—you do not, under any circumstances, enter my bedroom.”
A second finger.
“Second—you will never raise your voice to Vanya or Penelope. You will never touch them. You will never speak down to them. They are bound to me by marriage, and you will treat them with respect—or you will leave in pieces.”
A third.
“Third—you do not spy on me, or anyone under my roof. If I discover even a whisper of it, I will consider it an act of war.”
Her eyes filled, bright and unshed. “It hurts,” she whispered, voice thin. “That you see me only as a villain.”
“How else should I see a woman who has spent nearly a decade scheming to become my wife—knowing it’s impossible?” I replied. The words were sharp, precise, unforgiving. “Let me be perfectly clear, Seraphina. You will never be my wife. Not in this life.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “I would sooner burnthis city to ash and declare war on your entire bloodline than ever put my name on your finger.”
That did it.
The first tear slipped free, tracing a silent path down her cheek. She didn’t sob. Didn’t plead. She just stood there, trembling slightly—pride warring with the reality she could no longer deny.
When she didn’t move, I opened my bedroom door, stepped inside, and locked it behind me.
The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.
I crossed to the heavy oak desk and stood over it, fists clenched until my knuckles went white.
Four families ruled Lake Como.
The Volkovs—mine.
The Orlovs—my oldest enemies.
The Morozovs—Orlov allies, equally despised. I’d once strung their spoiled heir up outside Penelope’s restaurant after he put his hands on her.
And the Ferraros—disciplined, restrained, the only elders I respected.
We weren’t allies yet.
