“I noticed.” The awareness of her twenty-four years is a fresh wave of discomfort. She is 10 years younger than myself. Hegives me a knowing look—the kind he reserves for when he thinks a woman is about to become a useful distraction—but he lets it drop, heading toward his Isabella and Sofia, who’s already charming half the room with their easy, genuine warmth.
My gaze drifts back to Elena. She hasn’t moved. A statue in silk. When the music changes—a dramatic shift from the background jazz to a sweeping, traditional slow waltz—and the coordinator announces the first dance, she startles slightly. She clutches the bouquet tighter before she releases it, letting her mother take it from her trembling fingers. She forgot this part existed.
The crowd parts for us, forming a wide, expectant circle. She looks small in the space between us, fragile in a way that feels inherently dangerous.
I offer my hand because that’s what a husband does. She hesitates for only a heartbeat—that tiny moment of independent thought is the only resistance I’ve seen from her—before placing her cool, soft palm against mine. I lead her onto the center of the vast marble floor. The band starts to play the waltz—a slow, stately piece chosen by someone else. She follows perfectly, her training immediately visible. Every movement is precise, every step a mirror of mine. She maintains a perfect distance, her body language radiating polite formality. No resistance. No hesitation. Like she’s been drilled and choreographed for this moment all her life. The cold, logical part of my brain registers her perfection as a victory.
The men watching us—the heads of the Italian and Russian crews—probably think I’m the luckiest man in the room. A beautiful wife who listens. A woman who won’t test the limits of her leash.
And maybe they’re right. But as she stares past my shoulder, her eyes fixed on some point in the distant ceiling instead of meeting my gaze, something inside me twists violently. Thevictory tastes like ash. I shouldn't care if she's pretending. I shouldn’t want her to be anything other than what she is—a useful political solution. But the truth, the ugly, inconvenient truth that surfaces now, is that I don’t like how empty her eyes look. They are the eyes of a woman who has already accepted her death.
Halfway through the song, I lean closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear it over the music, my lips brushing the edge of her veil.
“You don’t have to look so frightened, Dove. I don’t bite.”
Her gaze flicks to mine—quick, startled, confused—and for the first time, I see it. A spark. A flash of something that doesn’t belong to Volkov, doesn't belong to the dress, and doesn't belong to the role she's playing. It is a flicker of anger, of challenge, of an independent spirit. Fire, faint but alive. And then it’s gone, instantly extinguished by a lifetime of instinct. She looks down again, her breath barely audible beneath the music. She doesn't reply. When the song ends, I step back and release her hand, the touch too brief, too formal. The crowd applauds politely, unaware that something fundamental in me just shifted.
She turns to leave, already moving to return to her mother's side—returning to the safety of the perimeter. But I stop her with a quiet, decisive word, my fingers brushing the lace on her elbow. “Elena.” She freezes. A slight tremor runs through her shoulders, a reaction to the sound of her own name spoken by my voice. “Next time,” I say, my voice low and firm, but laced with the casual authority I usually use with my men. “Look at me when I speak to you.” It’s not a request. It’s not a command. It's a test. I want to see that spark again.
She lifts her head slowly, meticulously, meeting my eyes—only for a moment, but it's enough to register the raw intelligence, the deep wells of resentment, hidden within.
Then, her father’s voice, sharp and demanding, cuts through the room, calling her name in Russian. The magic breaks. She drifts away like smoke, the elaborate gown swallowing her movement.
I watch her go, my fingers flexing with the sudden need to pull her back. She did everything right. Exactly as she was told. And for reasons I can’t begin to explain, that bothers me more than any open defiance ever could.
This arranged marriage, designed to be simple, had become very complicated.
Chapter 3
The silence follows us home.
Even with the hum of the car, the faint rhythm of tires on asphalt, it’s the quiet that fills everything. It’s a profound quiet, the kind you only find when the city has been left miles behind. Alessandro sits beside me, eyes forward, posture unyielding. The world passes in a blur of dense, old-growth trees and the occasional flash of a wrought-iron gate through the tinted glass.
I keep my hands folded in my lap, like I was taught. Wrists straight. Fingers soft. Never clenched—never a sign of defiance. My mother said men notice the little things. My father said men remember the wrong ones. So I sit perfectly still, pretending I can’t feel the weight of the ring on my finger. Pretending I don’t see his reflection in the window, the hard lines of a man who’s never had to explain himself.
He doesn’t speak the entire ride. Neither do I. The Moretti estate is nothing like the Volkov home.
Ours was all sharp edges and steel, like a fortress built from paranoia, planted in the very center of the city’s frantic pulse. His is carved stone and quiet power, not on a hill overlooking the chaos, but nestled deep within a private valley. It feels less like a house and more like a retreat. Guarded, yes, but elegant. The kind of place that murmurs money instead of screaming fear.
The silence here is tangible. When the car stops, the only sounds are the distant rustling of leaves and the faint, steady flow of a fountain somewhere unseen. This quiet—this sense of having escaped the world—is a warmth I've never known. My entire life has been noise: sirens, car horns, the constant, anxious chatter of my father’s security team. This is peace. And it is entirely his.
When we walk inside, the air changes. It's thick with the scent of aged leather and woodsmoke, comforting and deep. Men straighten in the shadows. They greet him with respectful nods, eyes flicking to me only once before darting away. The staff here are silent, fluid, moving like shadows. He doesn’t introduce me. Doesn’t have to. Everyone already knows who I am—the bride in the alliance that sealed two empires.
He gestures down a long hallway. “This way.” His voice is deep, steady. The kind of tone that expects obedience, not conversation.
I follow, heels clicking softly against a thick Persian rug, the sound muffled almost immediately. I notice the potent scent of cedar and smoke—his cologne, maybe, mingled with the residual scent of the expensive cigars he favors. It’s sharp and clean and utterly unshakable, a scent that speaks of control. When he opens a door toward the end of the hall, I step inside expecting... a guest room.
But it’s not. It’s large. Beautiful. It doesn't look like a room designed for a woman. There are no delicate fabrics or light colors. The heavy, masculine energy of the space settles over me immediately.
A king-sized bed dominates the center, draped in rich, deep tones—charcoal gray and forest green. The bedding is thick, layered, and looks immensely heavy. The walls are a textured, dark plaster, broken only by floor-to-ceiling windows and a door leading to a private terrace overlooking the dark, peaceful valley. There is no trace of the city traffic here; only the clean, cool scent of pine and night air.
It feels less like a stage and more like a sanctuary—a place of rest reserved for one man.
He stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets. “This is yours.”
The words catch me off guard. “Mine?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’ll sleep here. I’ll take the room next door.” He doesn’t tell me this was his room. He doesn't have to. The scale of the room, the heavy, bespoke furniture, the sheer authority of the space—I sense it. He has given me his private space.
