“That’s the mental torture,” he reasons. "She was eighteen when you disappeared. "You really think an eighteen-year-old girl orchestrated your kidnapping and wasn’t smart enough to eliminate the evidence?”
"She's very intelligent. Capable of anything."
"Or she's a woman who lost the man she loved and found a way to survive." Semyon shakes his head. "You're so determined to see betrayal that you're ignoring everything that doesn't fit your narrative."
"What about the engagement?" I push off the wall, resuming our walk. "She's marrying Roman. The man who took my place."
"You of all people should understand being trapped. Having no good options. Being forced into choices you'd never make otherwise."
"I hear what you're saying," I say finally. "But I can't let go of this until I know for sure. Until I look her in the eyes and see the truth."
“Are you ready to be alive?” he asks.
I smile. “Oh yes. I will rise from the dead at the engagement party.”
He stops walking. “You can’t. That’s too much exposure.”
“But they’re my people, right? The woman that once loved me? The man that was like family to me. Surely, they can’t truly want me dead, right?”
It’s sarcasm and he knows it.
“You’re crazy.”
“You have no idea.”
The ghost returns to haunt the living. And this time, someone's paying the price.
I just have to figure out who deserves it.
Chapter Five
Kira
The ballroom looks like a beautiful lie.
Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Everywhere I look, there are flowers—white roses and lilies, because Roman insisted on traditional. On virginal.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucking insulting.
"The centerpieces need to be higher," Roman's event coordinator says, gesturing frantically at the staff.
"Madame Belsky wants them to make a statement."
Madame Belsky. Roman's mother, who died fifteen years ago.
He's talking about me.
My new title. My new identity. The cage I'm about to lock myself into.
I stand at the edge of the ballroom, watching the preparations unfold like a military operation. Because that's what this is—not a celebration, but a conquest. Roman's public declaration of victory over the Ice Queen who thought she could remain independent.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Roman appears at my elbow, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back. I resist the urge to flinch. "Tomorrow night, all of Moscow will see us together. United."
"Unified," I correct, keeping my voice neutral. "United implies choice."
His fingers press harder against my spine. A warning. "Careful, printsessa. People are watching."
I glance around the ballroom. He's right—staff, security, various members of his organization. All of them cataloging my every reaction, looking for weakness.
