"Am I interrupting?" he asks.
"Alina wants to host a charity gala," Dimitri says flatly. "She wants to make herself a public target."
I shoot him an irritated look before turning to Alexei. "I want to show Ivan Volkov that we're not hiding. That we're not afraid of his threats."
To my surprise, Alexei nods slowly. "It's not a bad idea."
"You can't be serious." Dimitri stares at his closest advisor.
"Think about it," Alexei says, moving further into the room. "Right now, Ivan looks strong. He's made threats, and we'veresponded by locking down. It makes us look weak, defensive. A gala flips the script. It's a power play."
"It's a death wish," Dimitri counters.
"It's calculated risk," I interject. "We control the venue, the guest list, the security. We invite the neutral families, legitimate businesspeople, politicians. Ivan would have to be insane to make a move with that many witnesses."
"He is insane," Dimitri growls. "That's the problem."
"Then we'll be ready for him." I step closer to Dimitri, placing my hand over his heart. I can feel it pounding beneath my palm. "But we do this on our terms, not his."
Dimitri looks at me for a long moment, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The need to protect me versus the strategic advantage of the plan.
Dimitri is silent for several heartbeats. Then he exhales slowly and looks at me. "If we do this, we do it my way. Maximum security. Every entrance monitored. Every guest screened. And you don't leave my sight for a single second."
Relief floods through me. "Agreed."
"And if I see even a hint of danger, we're gone. No arguments."
"No arguments," I promise.
He pulls me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest. I can feel the tension in his body, the fear he's trying to control. "You're going to be the death of me, woman," he murmurs into my hair.
"No," I whisper back. "I'm going to be the life of you."
The next week passes in a blur of planning. Dimitri throws himself into organizing the event with the same intensity he brings to everything. He personally vets every vendor, every staff member, every detail. Alexei coordinates with the security team, mapping out sight lines and escape routes.
I focus on the guest list and the message we want to send. I reach out to the neutral families personally, speaking to the wives and daughters, building connections that transcend the traditional male-dominated power structure. I contact legitimate businesspeople who've worked with the Morozov family, politicians who owe Dimitri favors, and even a few carefully selected members of the press.
The gala will benefit a children's charity, something that can't be criticized. It will be elegant, sophisticated, and impossible to ignore.
During this time, something shifts between Dimitri and me. We steal moments throughout the day, passionate encounters in his study when the planning becomes too intense, his hands urgent on my body as he reminds himself that I'm alive and safe.
In the mornings, we lie in bed longer than we should, his hand resting on my stomach as we talk about the future. About the baby. About the kind of life we want to build.
"I want our child to be strong," he says one morning, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my skin. "But not hard. Not like I had to be."
"They'll be strong because they'll be loved," I tell him, covering his hand with mine. "That's a different kind of strength."
He kisses me then, slow and deep, and I lose myself in the taste of him, the feel of his body against mine. These moments of peace feel stolen, precious, and I hold onto them fiercely.
Katya visits twice during the week, excited about the gala and oblivious to the danger surrounding it. She's thriving at her new school, making friends, talking about her art classes with an enthusiasm that makes my heart ache with love for her. Dimitri has assigned two guards to watch her discreetly, something she doesn't know about and I'm grateful for.
The night before the gala, I'm in our bedroom going over the final seating arrangements when there's a knock at the door. One of the guards enters, his face carefully neutral.
"Mrs. Morozov, a package was delivered for you at the gate."
Something in his tone makes my stomach clench. "What kind of package?"
"It's been screened for explosives and biological threats. It's safe to open." He holds out a small box wrapped in plain brown paper.
