Silence.
Then one woman, all sharp bone structure and icy beauty, narrows her eyes.
“Sokolov,” she repeats slowly, almost reverently. “Your boss... is Gustav Sokolov, yes?”
“Yes,” I answer. “He’s my husband.”
A ripple of reactions passes through the semicircle. Quick glances, averted eyes, a few pale faces. Russian women don’t gossip openly, but they communicate volumes in single movements.
“What?” I ask again. “What is the problem?”
No one answers.
Except one.
She sits near the end, dark curls, warm eyes, an American softness in her posture. The only familiar accent in the room.
“They won’t say it,” she murmurs. “They won’t dare. Not to you.”
I swallow. “Say what?”
She exhales slowly. “Your new family... they’re not like the others here. Known for weapons dealing, but run by a brokenfamily. The name is respected out of necessity, not admiration. People keep their distance.”
“Why?” I ask.
She glances at the Russian women, then back at me. “The Sokolovs are seen as outcasts. If you want grenades and bombs, you go to the Sokolov bratva. But rarely. They’re dangerous. Unpredictable. And your husband... he’s known as the Mad King. Or the Mad Butcher.”
I frown.
Maybe the torture I saw at the castle was abnormally brutal.
The room seems to shift around me. Although nicknames like that should send fear through my veins, instead, something far stranger rises inside me.
A quiet instinct. A flash of protectiveness. A sense that whatever they think they know about Gustav or legends they fear, I have already stood closer to the fire than they ever will. And whether I like it or not, he’s my husband.
“And?” I ask, lifting my chin a little.
The American woman studies me, almost impressed. “And you’ll need to get used to being alone, Peighton. The other families carry pride. You’ll need to carry resilience.”
I sit straighter in my chair, even as the others refuse to meet my eyes. Maybe they don’t revere my husband. Maybe they fear him. Maybe they even despise the family I married into.
But the moment they said his name with dread, something inside me aligned.
If he is the Mad King, then I am his queen.
And I won’t let any of them forget that.
The class continues, but they fixate on dumb etiquette drills that aren’t necessary. How to pour tea in front of elders. How to conduct myself during tense meetings. How to hold your posture when your husband is being challenged by another boss.
It is self-explanatory to me. A waste of time. Some of it feels misogynistic too. My father taught me to be a man’s equal, not stand in his shadow and be quiet. I don’t know how Russian women do it.
By the time evening falls, I’m over it and hope future classes won’t be this old-fashioned.
I need to get ready for dinner. I slip on a tight, dark green dress with long sleeves. My chest is fairly exposed with a low-cut neckline. I stare in the mirror, wondering if I should wear it. It might make Gustav mad. Honestly, I want to be sexy and turn him on. Make him desire my body. Then, maybe he will warm up to me again. At least get us talking again.
I opt to wear it.
Hopefully, I don’t regret it.
