I pace the office long after the calls are made, the contracts reviewed. Every plan, every threat, every flicker of violence in the city comes down to this: I will win. I will keep her. I will burn down the world if I have to.
If Vadim thinks he can steal a piece of my future—my wife, my life—he’s about to learn how little mercy I have left.
Chapter Thirteen - Suzy
Two weeks.
The number claws at me from the inside, a drumbeat I can’t silence no matter how I try. Two weeks until I’m Suzy Sharov, until the world changes for good.
I whisper it to myself while standing under brutal studio lights, letting stylists pin fabric and brush powder across my cheekbones.
I pose, angle, turn, let the camera flash, but every muscle in my body is tight, every smile rehearsed. I’m here, but I’m not—the real me is stuck in a waiting room inside my own skull, counting down the days until I walk down an aisle toward a man I can’t escape.
Outfit change. Laughter, banter. My hands shake when I button up the next dress, but I hide it well. I hear snippets of conversation—who’s booking Paris, who’s landing the next campaign.
I should care, but nothing seems real. My phone buzzes during a break, shattering the rhythm. It’s an international number. My heart seizes before I even answer.
My mother’s voice hits, clipped and tight, the accent sharper than usual. She doesn’t ask how I am. She wants to know what’s going on, why there are whispers about a wedding, why I look exhausted in every photo that leaks online. I try to explain, words tripping over themselves—I didn’t choose this; it’s an arrangement; it’s about family; it’s not what you think—but she cuts me off, tone colder than a winter wind.
“You always wanted your father’s world. Now you have it. Don’t cry about monsters, Suzy, when you insisted on dancing with them.”
The line clicks dead. I stare at the phone until my eyes burn, but I won’t let myself cry. Not here. Not with a room full of models watching, not with my makeup still perfect.
Elara finds me in the dressing room, all mischief and big-sister energy, but she drops the act as soon as she sees my face.
“Hey. What’s going on?” she asks, voice low, genuine in a way that guts me.
I can’t tell her the truth—can’t say I was collared, caged, traded. So I give her half of it. “It’s arranged. Two weeks. I don’t have a choice.” The words taste bitter, like surrender.
Elara sighs, eyebrows drawn. She studies me for a beat, then snaps her fingers, smile snapping back in place.
“Then tonight we raise hell,” she declares. “Bachelorette blowout. My treat.” The other girls catch the vibe instantly, hungry for any excuse to forget the grind. Drinks, shots, cheers—they swarm me, painting me in lipstick and glitter, laughing too loud. I want to disappear, but I need this too. I need the noise to drown out the panic that chews at my heart.
We end up at a club tucked away in a labyrinth of alleys—a velvet-draped maze of neon and perfume, red-lit corners pulsing with possibility.
Elara leads the charge. “No press or creeps. Just us,” she promises. I almost believe her.
Inside, I’m swept along—laughing at nothing, knocking back vodka like water. The music is so loud it rattles my teeth, the floor sticky beneath my heels. I think maybe, for a minute, I can forget what’s coming. The curtains part, and then the real surprise hits: dancers.
Men, beautiful and oiled and nearly naked, moving through haze and colored lights. My jaw drops. Elara howls with laughter at my expression.
“This is insane,” I shout, shaking my head, half mortified. “I shouldn’t be here—”
“You’re the bride,” one of the girls teases, draping a plastic tiara across my hair. “You’re the queen tonight.”
It’s chaos, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself get swept away. I cheer when the others cheer, blush when one dancer twirls me, let the wildness crack through my shell. It’s not real life—it’s theater, a fever dream—but it’s better than the numbness. For a breathless moment, I am just Suzy, laughing and a little drunk, surrounded by people who only want to celebrate.
A dancer leans in—too close, too bold—and I jerk back, mouth open to protest…
Everything stops.
The music slams dead. Lights flicker. A silence as heavy as concrete fills the room. And there he is: Leon, standing in the doorway, backlit, suit sharp, eyes burning. His men spill in behind him—deadly, efficient, blank-faced.
Dancers scatter, the girls squealing and shrinking away, clutching purses and shoes and drinks. In less than a minute, the place is empty except for the two of us.
Leon walks toward me, slow and certain, not raising his voice. His gaze pins me where I stand. When he reaches me, his fingers slide to my throat, finding the bare skin where the necklace used to be—not squeezing, not threatening, just claiming. My breath stutters, the world shrinks to his touch.
“You’re mine,” he says, quiet enough that only I can hear. His thumb traces my pulse. “Your body. I don’t share.”
