ASTRID
Idon’t remember arriving.
One moment I’m in my apartment, and the next, I’m standing alone in the grand foyer of the Ivanov mansion. It’s quiet. Candlelight flickers against polished wood. The rain stopped. There’s a strange hush outside, like the whole world is holding its breath.
And then I look down.
I’m in a gown. Not just any gown but a flowing, midnight-blue creation that feels like it was conjured from silk and stars. My hands move instinctively to my stomach. My belly is unmistakable now. Full, round. Beautiful, even. The fabric curves around it like it was made just for me, because it was.
A mirror catches my eye, towering and ornate, like something out of a czar’s palace. I walk toward it, stunned. I can’t believe it’s me in the reflection. My hair is swept up in soft waves, skin luminous, eyes bright. I look radiant. Like a woman in love. Like a woman who knows she’s loved.
I almost laugh. What is this?
Before I can ask myself too many questions, the front doors burst open.
People pour in, an elegant and glittering sea of tuxedos and gowns. Laughter echoes, champagne glasses clink. A string ensemble appears as if conjured by a hidden spell, violins filling the air with haunting and impossibly beautiful music. Chandeliers glow above. The Ivanov mansion has transformed into a ballroom pulled from a Russian fairy tale.
And then I see Yuri.
He’s standing at the top of the grand staircase, his black tux immaculate, his silver cufflinks catching the light. His hair is slicked back, sharp and regal. He looks like a prince.
No. Like a king.
The crowd parts for him as he descends the stairs, every step measured, every inch of him controlled power and elegance. His eyes find mine instantly, and I forget how to breathe.
He walks straight toward me and takes my hand, lifting it to his lips. “You look like perfection,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Beautiful. Unstoppable.”
My chest tightens with emotion. His hand settles gently on my belly. “I can’t wait to meet him. I can’t wait to build a life with you.”
He’s soft in this moment but still steel beneath the warmth. It’s Yuri as I’ve always wished he could be. Unafraid to love.
I open my mouth to answer, but the sudden crashing and shattering of glass stops me. The windows explode inward. Screams erupt. Gunfire cracks across the marble. Chaosfollows instantly—guests ducking, running, colliding. The string ensemble goes silent. The music is replaced by terror.
Armed men dressed in tactical gear pour through the broken windows, shouting in Russian, all carrying automatic weapons.
Yuri turns sharply, instinct taking over. He pushes me back, shielding me with his body. But the crowd is too thick and I reach for him, calling his name.
“Astrid!”
His voice is there, fierce and focused, but distant. Hands grab at me, dragging me back through the stampede of terrified bodies. I see his arm stretched out toward me, his hand reaching.
I attempt to grab it, but I’m too far.
And then?—
He’s gone.
A knock yanks me out of the dream like a slap.
I bolt upright, chest rising and falling quickly. The vision of the ballroom vanishes—the gown, the string ensemble, Yuri’s hand in mine—gone. Only the silence of my apartment remains, broken again by that damn knock.
Not gentle. Sharp. Authoritative.
I ease off the sofa, barefoot and careful, heart hammering against my ribs. Another knock, three loud raps, no patience behind them. I cross to the door slowly. My fingers tremble as I peek through the peephole.
Yuri.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh. I unlock the door and open it, blinking up at him. He’s not in a tux, no ballroom fantasy, but he still manages to look absurdly good. He’s dressed in a black coat over a dark navy button-down, the collar open just enough to show the sharp edge of his collarbone. His slacks cling just right, and his hair, still damp from the rain, is pushed back like he couldn’t be bothered but somehow still pulls it off like a magazine spread.
