I was pregnant. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I gripped the edge of the vanity, focusing on the rough texture of the wood beneath my fingertips. One night, one act of volatile, desperate passion born of power struggle, and now this. A secret I had to guard more fiercely than the hidden flash drive of my father’s evidence.
The strategic calculation was instant and brutal. I couldn’t tell Roman. Not now, maybe not ever. If I were just Arkady’s pawn, a temporary hostage, I could eventually escape him. Marriage would be a complication, yes, but one I could navigate out of. But if Roman knew I was carrying his child, a Lobanov heir, the rules would change entirely. The marriage would become ironclad. I would transform instantly, violently, from temporary leverage to permanent, prized property. He would never let me go. My chance for escape, my chance to finally expose my father and rebuild my life, would vanish forever.
I lifted my chin, the diamond pin glittering under the light. The secret stayed locked inside me. It was my only remaining power, my last shield.
“Ready?” Isabella asked softly, touching my shoulder.
“Almost,” I said, drawing a deep breath. I stared down the frightened reflection and replaced it with the queen of Philanthropy, the woman who knew how to smile while plotting a revolution. I had to keep the secret.
The door to the dressing room eased open, and Emilia slipped in. She was carrying a huge, extravagant bouquet of white lilies, which instantly filled the already cloying air with their sweet, heavy scent. Emilia was the softest of the Lobanov wives, the one whose worry was always visible, like a cease in her brow. Today, that worry was deep.
She set the flowers on a small table, her gaze locked on mine in the mirror. She dismissed Isabella with a small, silent nod, and Isabella, sensing the private moment, slipped out.
“Liza,” Emilia started, her voice barely a whisper. She walked toward me slowly. “Look at me.”
I turned, forcing my regal, unreadable mask into place. “Hello, Emilia. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
She didn’t acknowledge the lilies. She took both my hands in hers, her grip gentle but firm, grounding. “You don’t have to go through with this,” she said. It wasn’t a question or an accusation. It was a statement of fact, an offer of a lifeline.
My heart hammered hard against my ribs. I knew what this meant. Emilia, through Viktor, was offering me the Pakhan’s veto. The only force in the world powerful enough to stop a Lobanov brother’s wedding on the day it was supposed to happen. It was a golden escape route, a chance to be pulled out of the fire, safely hidden in a Lobanov bunker until the dust settled.
I raised a single, questioning eyebrow. “Can you actually put a stop to this?”
Emilia met my gaze, her eyes unwavering. “If you want it. If you say the word, Viktor will use his authority. He will end this ceremony right now, before the cars leave the driveway. Roman will be furious, but he cannot go against Viktor’s command. You’ll be safe.”
The temptation was a sharp, sudden ache. Safety, no Roman, no lies, no wedding night interrogation, and no fear that my growing secret would be uncovered.
But when I saw the truth. A public cancellation, a sudden veto from the Pakhan, would not mean freedom. It would mean a scandal that would tear Roman’s clean empire apart, and it would leave me completely exposed. I would exchange a public, controlled cage for a messier, private captivity. I would be hidden away, powerless, waiting for Roman’s anger to cool or for Arkady’s rivals to find me. Either way, I’d lose my ability to act.
No, I needed that stage. I needed the access that only marriage could grant me. The only way to dismantle my father’s empire and secure my own future was to be at the heart of Romans. This was my strategic position.
I straightened my shoulder under the weight of the satin cape, adopting the look of a monarch ready for coronation. “I already am,” I said, my voice clear and ringing. I didn’t tremble. “And I’ll do it looking like a queen.”
I met Emilia’s concerned gaze and shook my head once, slow and deliberate. “Thank you, Emilia, but I want it. I chose this.”
It was the biggest lie I’d ever told, yet it felt like the truth of my resolve. By choosing the path of maximum danger, I was choosing the path of maximum power. The wedding was not the end of my story, but the start of my campaign.
If I wore this mask, if I committed to this role, I could survive. More than that, I could win. My secret, the life beating inside me, made the stakes terrifying, but it also fueled my resolve. I had a small, precious life to protect now, and only the Lobanov walls were thick enough to shield it.
I gave Emilia a small, genuine smile this time. “Don’t worry. Just focus on enjoying the party.”
Emilia, seeing the iron certainty in my eyes, finally let her breath out. She squeezed my hands once more, a final, silent pledge of support, and then she turned to leave, taking the heavy scent of the lilies with her. I was alone, standing at the precipice, fully committed to the plunge.
I was adjusting the gold bracelet on my wrist, a wedding gift from Rome, beautiful and heavy, like a cuff, when it opened again. This time, it wasn’t a friend. It was Stepan Morozov.
He didn’t bother to knock or smile. He just filled the doorway, a block of ice, grey eyes, and a black suit, the very definition of Roman’s absolute control. He was the cold, abrupt voice of the machine that was about to claim me.
“Miss Markova,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless. “The cars are ready. We are five minutes behind schedule. It’s time to head out.”
Five minutes behind schedule. As if this were a corporate merger and not a forced marriage. His obsession with order was almost comical, if it wasn’t so lethal. I pushed myself up from the vanity chair, the long, heavy satin of the gown feeling like chains.
“Excellent, Stepan,” I replied, giving him a tight, cool smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I hate to keep the press waiting. It only makes them hungrier.”
He didn’t react to my sarcasm. He just nodded and stepped back, his presence marking the undeniable transition. The privacy of this luxurious suite, my temporary gilded cage,was over. Now, I was stepping into the public world of the Bratva spectacle. I was becoming an asset again, a performance piece.
Isabella was instantly at my side. She knew what Stepan represented. As we started the slow, heavy descent down the grand staircase of the mansion, she leaned in close.
“Breath,” she whispered.
